The Tides of Change
by Kiristeen
Summary: Xover with Forever Knight Lacroix/Xander Lacroix is exiled from his dimension by a vengeance demon and Xander has the misfortune of stumbling across the hungry vampire. Lacroix spares him; the strong loyalties singing in the mortal's blood intriguing him
1. Prologue

Title: The Tides of Change  
Author: Kiristeen ke Alaya  
Series: No, not yet, but who knows what the future holds  
Genre: BtVS/Forever Knight X-Over  
Codes: Lacroix/Xander (I know, odd pairing. :)~ )  
Rating: R for adult situations and violence (violence is no more than the BtVS series itself.

Warnings: This story contains slash elements of the male/male variety, if this bothers you, you may want to miss this story. It also contains violence and mild language.

Summary: Lacroix, despite appearances to the contrary, is troubled by the necessary death of his vampire master and mortal daughter (Divia) -- a double whammy, so to speak -- and is attempting to put the whole sordid affair behind him. But left feeling that, after everything was said and done, the ending was too easy, too pat, can't help but wait for the last shoe to drop. It isn't until he finally begins to relax that Divia's final revenge comes calling and Lacroix is ripped from everything he holds dear.

Disclaimers: The worlds and characters of neither Forever Knight, nor Buffy the Vampire Slayer, belong to me. They belong to others with more power, and more money. : )~ This story is not for profit, and no infringement is intended. It is purely for entertainment value -- my pitiful attempt to keep the love alive.

Setting: This story is set right after the episode where Divia, Lacroix' mortal daughter (his vampire master) returned to try and destroy him and was ultimately destroyed (Ashes to Ashes), and in the Buffy universe, it takes place between seasons six and seven.

Author's notes: Yes, I realize the timelines don't match up. : ) Don't worry, I take care of that within the story itself. It should become apparent why the differing timelines don't matter at all.

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Prologue  
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Settling himself into his seat, Lacroix waited until precisely the right moment before switching from canned music to 'live'. Tapping into the lingering unease he had felt since Divia's death, Lacroix, for only the second time, planned a broadcast around his own emotional state, his own concerns. The song came to gentle end, the last note dying away with a mournful tone. Pausing briefly, the better to build his audience's tension, he began speaking, his voice, low and seductive, almost a purr.

"Greetings, Gentle Listeners all. Have you ever considered the seductive power of fear? Face it, we _all_ have our fears -- great and small. Something out there brings it out in us, sets our hearts to beating wildly, and our blood to flowing freely. It makes the adrenaline rush through our bodies instructing us to choose -- choose to fight or flee. Fear; it paralyses us, it frees us to act without conscious thought. But most of all it gives us that rush that tells us we're not dead yet, that we still . . . exist.

"What is it _you_ fear? Is it something simple? Is it pain? Do you fear the aches and pains of growing old? Is it Betrayal? Death? Or, is it something more, something darker? Do you fear the shadows, and all that is unseen there in that eternal twilight where our imagination makes every half-seen flutter into a monster, every nearly-identifiable sound into the very thing the frightens us most?

"Do you dream of these terrors, startling awake in a cold sweat? Do you scream into the darkness when these so-called terrors approach? Do you hold yourself back from truly living, enjoying your existence for fear of . . . _fear_? And just what is our fascination with this unquantifiable emotion? What about it makes us feel so very _alive_?

"This is the Nightcrawler, and tonight's subject is fear. Call me, tell me what frightens you. I am here to listen."

x-x-x

Nick frowned, casting a quick glance down at the radio, though he well knew it would provide absolutely no insight into Lacroix's mind. Tonight was different than usual, however. Tonight, Lacroix spoke not to him, but to someone else. _Who?_ Nick wondered.

Usually, the Nightcrawler's monologues spoke directly, occasionally indirectly, to those thoughts that plagued him the most. This unexpected change both relieved and concerned him.

Since the morning he'd left Lacroix beside Divia's burning pyre, they'd taken the first tiny steps to reconciling their seemingly irreconcilable differences. They weren't 'buddies'. Nick doubted that colloquial term would _ever_ describe their relationship, but at least now, they weren't arguing from the moment either of the stepped into a room with the other.

Of course, Lacroix _still_ didn't agree with either his insistence at, as the older vampire phrased it, 'playing at mortality', nor with his search for true mortality, but at least for the moment, they'd . . . agreed to disagree.

It was curiously freeing. No matter how much he wanted to deny it -- to deny that part of himself. No matter how much he, at times, despised it. There was a bond between them, one that went beyond the mental connection between a vampire and his child. In his calmer, saner, moments, Nick knew it was this bond, this bond of love, that had kept Lacroix -- his father, his master -- chasing after him through the centuries.

Some would call it obsession, and technically, he supposed, it was. He was the first to admit, however, that everyone had their obsessions. His, as Lacroix had frequently taunted him, was his 'useless' quest to become mortal again. He'd been chasing it as long as Lacroix had been chasing him.

_So,_ he thought to himself with a humorless chuckle, _who's obsession is worse -- his or mine?_

Nick sighed. No doubt, they wouldn't agree on the answer to _that_ question either. _No matter,_ he thought. He'd never ask the question, anyway. What did matter, however, was Nick's growing concern that tonight's monologue was a reflection of some inner turmoil of the older vampire's.

He'd never been as adept as Lacroix at reading emotions across the bond they shared -- though he suspected that was as much due to the older vampire's long experience at blocking, as to any inability on his part. Tonight, though, was different -- again. The bond was thrumming with Lacroix's . . . discontent. That wasn't quite right, but Nick couldn't quite pin down what was wrong. All he knew for sure was that _something_ was wrong. For several long moments he considered showing up at the broadcast booth -- which was now back in the CERK building, the Raven still under repairs. Bad things tended to happen when Lacroix was upset. He should, at least, _try_ to head that off.

In the end, he decided against it. Lacroix would _not_ appreciate the realization he'd been 'broadcasting' -- all puns aside -- and likely wouldn't open up as to what, exactly, was bothering him anyway. Of course, all _that_ would do is end up angering both of them, and Nick was in no hurry to destroy the very fragile peace they'd managed to establish.

If it was still bad tomorrow, he'd go to the Raven before work. A full day's sleep was always a good idea before confronting Lacroix, and, if nothing else, it would help him hold his temper.

TBC  
Kiristeen ke Alaya  
Feedback: Feed the muses please


	2. Chapter One

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Chapter One  
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Lacroix frowned down at the bloodwine he held, the deep red liquid catching and reflecting the flashing nightclub lights. He'd felt . . . off all night. If he didn't know better, he'd would be willing to lay blame for this feeling on being watched -- that's what it felt like. He shook off the feeling, or rather he attempted to. His mind told him, quite rightly he assured himself, that it was simply an after affect of actually _being_ watched. Divia had watched him long before she'd made her presence so keenly felt -- and he'd repeatedly felt that unnerving presence hovering just beyond the range of full perception, unable to tell more than the simple fact of presence. His cold heart, on the other hand, told him something entirely different.

_Let go your mortal bonds, General. _

_Let go your mortal bonds, Nicholas. _

As Divia had told him, he had told Nicholas. Their mortal lives must be forgotten, must, of necessity, be relegated to the past where they belonged.

Unfortunately, one piece of _his_ mortality, of his 'mortal bonds', had followed him into the darkness. His daughter, Divia, his eternal master. Well, not so eternal after all. She was dead, truly dead, and it was by his design, if not his actual hand.

His hand trembled briefly as he remembered the first time he'd tried to destroy her, -- had thought he _had_ -- the smooth surface of the bloodwine shattering into tiny ripples as it reflected his involuntary movement. Setting the glass down abruptly, he signalled Miklos, the bartender, to take it away. Even as . . . unnerved as he currently was, he wouldn't forget that cardinal rule -- don't give the mortal patrons even the slightest chance of picking up the wrong glass.

He sighed, finally giving in to the seemingly inevitable trip down memory lane.

She had been the sole bright spot in his mortal existence, the one thing in life he truly cherished -- other than power, of course. From the moment she'd saved his life the night Mt. Vesuvius blew, things between them had changed. She became the one with power, he the follower, learning at her hand -- though she hadn't been a vampire much longer than he at that point.

She'd been less than a year old, vampirically speaking, when she'd brought him across, and to this day, he didn't know how she'd done it -- though he was grateful beyond mere words that she had. Perhaps it had been the last of _her_ mortal bonds, her mortal ties to him that let her succeed so soon in her new life. Perhaps, on that night so full of terror, with its fleeing servants and noblemen alike, she had simply gorged herself before coming to him.

He didn't know. He hadn't asked, then -- hadn't known enough _to_ ask -- and he certainly no longer had that option. It was something that would forever remain a mystery.

As grateful as he had been -- and still was -- he would have given her almost anything she'd wanted. He would have done most anything she'd asked. He had, in fact, followed her requests and demands many times. Unfortunately, she began to want the one thing he couldn't, wouldn't, give her.

He shuddered. Now, nearly 2,000 years later, the idea still repulsed him. It was the single mortal moral he taken with him into the darkness. Barely 13 years old when she been brought across, she had been his mortal daughter, his vampiric mother and companion, but she had wanted more. She had wanted it all. She had wanted to be his lover.

He couldn't do it. The thought of it horrified him then, even more than now, so far removed from the incident. He had protested. She hadn't wanted to take no for an answer. She wasn't willing to.

So, he had killed her. He'd cut off her head, and placed her in the same tomb as _her_ master -- the master _she'd_ destroyed for trying to control her. He'd sealed her in with the strongest religion symbol of their time and left her there. For nearly two millenia he'd considered her dead.

Lacroix let out a humorless chuckle as he tried to turn his attention to the patrons of his nightclub. The irony of the entire situation did not escape him. Divia had killed her master because he had wanted to control her utterly, control and shape her development in his image.

He had killed _her_ for the very same reason -- her rebirth notwithstanding -- and now she was truly dead.

Nicholas had attempted -- very nearly succeeding -- to kill _him_ for the very same thing. He wondered, if one day, Nicholas would face the situation.

He frowned briefly. Despite all the admonishments he'd given Nicholas over the centuries about wishful thinking, regret, remorse, and all like emotions, he couldn't help but wonder now. How would things be different if he'd found another way to deal with the demands he wouldn't obey. If he hadn't tried to kill her, what would life be like now?

Would she have grown to accept the limitations he placed on their relationship? Would she have _still_ been the angry, denied child he had so recently confronted? Would they have been able to live in harmony or would he have eventually run -- as Nicholas had?

Rising abruptly, suddenly angry at the turn his thoughts had taken, he headed for the back door of The Raven without a single word to anyone. It was bad enough that recent events had led him down a path he considered foolish -- memory lane, indeed! Wishing things were different was a fool's paradise, one that lead vampires to their destruction. But now, he was beginning to compare himself to Nicholas, _NICHOLAS_.

He shuddered.

As much as he loved his son -- some would say obsessed over, he knew -- the thought of being like him made him feel slightly nauseated.

The moment the heavy door closed behind him, Lacroix took the barest of moments to check around him for mortal presence before lifting into the air at vampiric speeds. Flight had always felt curiously freeing to him, and that held true now. Pushing himself to the limits of his abilities, temporarily allowed him to lay his thoughts to rest.

Flying without really thinking about where he was going, Lacroix found himself landing on the roof of his son's abode before he realized where he was. He frowned, almost taking off again immediately. He wasn't entirely certain he wanted to face Nicholas tonight. Though there seemed to be a growing accord between them since the night of Divia's death -- a fact he relished -- he wasn't sure he could maintain his own temper enough tonight to foster the tentative nature of their . . . truce.

It took so little to set Nicholas off. Of course, he supposed the same could be said of him.

_No,_ he thought, _tonight is not the night._ He, strangely enough, wasn't in the mood for an argument. He was about to leave when a voice stopped him.

"Lacroix, what are you--" Nicholas cut himself off abruptly. "Would you like to come in," he asked instead.

"Yes, I would . . . like that," Lacroix replied urbanely, before his common sense could reassert itself. As much as he knew this probably would end the same way most of their meetings did, he was in the mood for company. If they ended up arguing again, so be it. That was good, too.

Nicholas spun around and headed for the door, ignoring the skylight which was the entrance Lacroix usually preferred. In the interests of civility, he decided, for once, to play along. He followed sedately behind his son.

As they disappeared inside the old building, neither of them saw the silent figure step out of the shadows.

She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. Earlier, she had been certain her prey had sensed her. He had been so . . . uneasy. She had gotten just a little too close, she knew, but he was such a fascinating creature that she could see why Divia had been obsessed with him. He radiated so much power, but at the same time gave off such an air of . . . loneliness. He was, much as she suspected he would coldly deny it, a wounded soul.

She suspected he would deny even having a soul, but she knew better. She had met the soulless ones, and Lacroix and his like were not them. It was tempting to delay the contingency vengeance that Divia had wished for, just long enough to take the measure of the man beneath the vampire, to see if she could actually _reach_ that man.

She sighed. No, that would not be the thing. She was new to the vengeance fold, and as such was on a sort of probation. She didn't want to do anything to mess up her new station in life. It was so much better than where she'd been before. It was a new thing -- the probation -- thanks, in part, she had heard, to one Anyanka.

The story was whispered between the older demons, so she had heard bits and pieces, but they always seemed to clam up when the younger converts appeared. Consequently, she didn't know the whole story. She wanted to, however, and hoped that this . . . unusual assignment just might get her noticed.

How often were even vengeance demons called to wish vampires into different dimensions? Not 'realities' mind you; that happened quite frequently. One, 'I wish so and so had never. . . .' or 'I wish he turned the other way that day.' and you had an entirely new reality, one in which neither vengeance demon, nor wisher, could prejudge just what would be different.

She grinned. She _would_ wait, however. The outcome of the meeting between father and son -- whichever way the wind blew -- would make this final vengeance so much sweeter.

If their final words were harsh, or in their final moments together they came to blows it would weigh heavily on 'the judged'. If, on the other hand, this meeting furthered their flagging relationship, all the better. Lucien Lacroix would regret the eternal loss ever so much more.

Yes, she would wait. She would wait until he readied himself for a day's slumber. She would wait until The Raven was cold and silent, and _he_ all alone. It was then, and only then, that she would act.

She settled herself down to wait, her thoughts turning back to the day she had heard the heartbreaking soul-cry of the child vampire. She had responded immediately. She could do nothing else. Of course, at first, she hadn't realized she was dealing with a vampire. She'd never met this sort before.

"Hello," she called out, the young child in front of her seething with a powerful mix of rage and despair.

The blonde girl whirled around, much faster than she expected to be possible.

Her eyes widened as she took in the sharp fangs that distended from beneath the girl's upper lip, the bright, golden color of her other-worldly eyes. Before she could say another word, the vampire leapt forward, twirled her around, and sank those razor sharp fangs into the side of her neck.

She hadn't gotten out so much as a scream before the child as quickly leapt away.

"What _are_ you?" she asked curiously, her eyes losing the gold, her fangs receding until the vengeance demon could no longer see them.

"I am a demon," she replied simply, "a demon who grants wishes."

"Really?" the girl replied, intrigue lighting her eyes.

She nodded. "The rage of your pain burst through the dimensional walls. I came to you in answer."

It was there the 'fun' had begun. She had not _liked_ Divia, had, in fact, thought the brat nothing but a self-centered she-cat that probably deserved everything she'd gotten. But it wasn't her place to decide that. And while Divia was all that, and more, the child vampire had learned her lessons well.

She wanted to take her own vengeance, but knew, there was always the possibility of failure. She had made a wish, a strange wish, a wish that wouldn't be enacted unless she died before she could complete her own brand of vengeance.

TBC  
Kiristeen ke Alaya  
Feedback: Oh, pretty please!


	3. Chapter Two

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Chapter Two  
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Lacroix allowed a small smile of near contentment to curve his lips upward as he finished the last swallow of the special reserve he had opened upon reaching home. His impromptu visit with his son had gone amazingly well; though, they had both avoided -- religiously, one might say -- the hot topics that lay between them.

Now, all he needed to do was figure out how to renew the assault to bring his wayward son back into the fold -- without disturbing the peace. It wasn't something he'd ever really tried before, having always been of the opinion that the direct approach was best. It wasn't exactly a hard concept to grasp, after all; accept what you are, or you'll never be happy. It sounded ridiculously common sense to him.

It was frustrating at the best of times, and downright infuriating at the worst, that his favorite offspring couldn't see that. It had moved him in the past to take risks that he could see now were mistakes. He had pushed too hard. His smile turned rueful as he admitted that even he, despite the nearly 2,000 years he'd lived, could still learn -- still _needed_ to learn.

He _wasn't_ as comfortable admitting, however; that it was his 800 year old son that had done the teaching.

"Well," he said softly, "no matter. The lesson is learned."

"And what lesson would that be, General?"

Lacroix whipped around, eyes golden and fangs extended. "Who the hell are you?" he asked with an enraged snarl, even as his greater concern was how this person had managed to, not only get _in_ to his private apartments, but to also get within a few feet of him -- all without his being aware of it.

"I supposed that's an apt question," the woman smiled calmly.

The utter lack of fear in the mortal standing before him, shocked Lacroix so deeply he shifted back, his eyes returning to their normal blue, fangs receding up into his gumline. "Do you plan on answering it?" he asked with genuine curiosity.

Her grin widened. "Oh, yes," she replied, "when I'm ready."

_When she's __**ready**__?!_ he thought incredulously. _Of all the--!_ He darted forward, moving faster than the mortal eye could follow, but even so, she wasn't there when he reached for her. He blinked, feeling shock numb his system. "What the hell?"

"Again, General, an apt phrase."

Lacroix spun around again, only to find the woman standing in his previous position. The utter non-reality of the situation rendered him temporarily speechless.

"You're fast, General, but not quite fast enough."

His eyes narrowed as he struggled to keep his anger under control.

"You see, I came prepared, having met another of your kind before." The woman paused, her delighted grin turning rueful. "She, on the other hand, _did_ take me by surprise. If I didn't heal so well, I'd be sporting a twin set of scars, I'm sure."

"She?" Lacroix asked, instantly more wary of his intruder. He hadn't been concerned until now, but his opinion was rapidly changing. She wasn't mortal, despite what most of his senses told him, including the fact that he could clearly hear her heart beating. Well, at least she wasn't an _ordinary_ mortal. Now that he'd managed to reign in his temper -- somewhat -- he also realized that she didn't smell quite right. There was definitely something different about her.

"My name is Caldrona," she replied, answering his first question instead of his last. "Though that won't mean a thing to you."

Lacroix' eyebrow raised sharply in sardonic agreement. "Quite," he replied, non-committal. "Perhaps we should begin somewhere else, then. Like _what_ you are?"

"I'm a demon."

Lacroix scoffed immediately. "Demons do not exist," he replied automatically, his mind ruthlessly shoving aside the so-called proof he had seen with his own eyes. He still wasn't one hundred percent certain what had really happened to Nicholas that day, and until he was, he would not believe.

Caldrona laughed, but didn't reply to that assertion, saying instead, "A vengeance demon, to be more precise."

"Vengeance?" Lacroix echoed, his heart beating once hard against his ribs. If there was any truth in what she claimed, he had certainly made enough enemies that might want vengeance. The thought didn't sit well. His eyes narrowed once again as he thoughtfully inspected the woman -- the so-called demon -- standing across the room from him.

Suddenly she . . . changed, and Lacroix had less doubts as to the woman's claim of being a demon. She certainly _looked_ the part, her face deformed, and lined with prominently displayed, oversized veins. He took an involuntary step backward.

"Normally," she began quietly, completely ignoring his slight reaction, "vengeance demons answer our . . . clients wishes immediately, usually never even meeting the one affected by them."

Lacroix' eyes widened, his mind working furiously to find a way out of this ridiculous situation. He already knew he couldn't attack her, draining her of her life's blood. He wasn't quick enough -- which was a thought stopping thought all by itself. He frowned, suddenly wondering just what she would taste like.

"I like doing things a little differently."

"Just my luck," Lacroix replied sourly, thinking that perhaps it was indeed his luck. If whatever was going to happen had done so without this visit, then he'd very possibly have been too late to do anything about it. "Have you perhaps considered that the person you're here to seek vengeance for might not be _worthy_ of it?" he asked, all the while clamping down on his urge to laugh at the ridiculousness of the question, of the whole situation, in fact.

While he had no doubt that he was facing a formidable opponent, the very idea of second hand vengeance just seemed so . . . wrong. If one was to take vengeance for some slight, real or imagined, how could it be savored if someone _else_ accomplished it for you? Curious as to Caldrona's opinion on that, he asked.

Her grin grew. "I like the way you think," she replied.

Lacroix nodded his head in acceptance. Of course she did. It was a logical progression.

"In this case, however, the . . . personal touch is not possible."

"Why?" he asked, as much because he was truly curious as because he needed to delay longer.

"She's dead."

His cold heart beat once more as dread raced through him. _Divia,_ was his instant thought.

"She too, believed in the personal touch, but, as loony as she was, she realized -- or at least admitted to the possibility -- that she might not succeed. I'm her back up plan -- so to speak."

Swallowing around the unaccustomed lump in his throat, Lacroix spoke tauntingly. "Back up plan?" he asked, his lips curving into a sneer. "That must be so . . . demeaning."

Caldrona's eyes narrowed angrily, the expression passing across her face so quickly that Lacroix almost missed it. Then, she laughed. "That was good, General. But I must say, not good enough."

Lacroix had, had enough. "Out!" he demanded, only just keeping himself from shouting. "I'm through with your games." He couldn't remember the last time anyone other than Nicholas had so incited his fury. _No one_ talked to him that way. _No one_ laughed at him. "Get out!" he repeated, his voice slightly louder.

Caldrona merely crossed the room slowly, dropping elegantly onto his sofa, utterly ignoring both his growing rage _and_ his demands.

"So, then, you're not even curious about who wants vengeance, or what I'm going to do to you?"

"What you're going to _try_ to do, you mean," Lacroix spat out, before he regained control and schooled his features into an expressionless mask, and his voice into his Nightcrawler facade. "If _she_ didn't succeed, ended up dead, in fact, what makes you think you'll do any better?" he asked, his tones soft and velvety. He felt a wave of satisfaction as the woman in front of him shivered slightly, but didn't allow it to show in his expression. He waited.

That infuriating, overly self-confident grin was back, and Lacroix would have given just about anything to be able to wipe it from her face. He did briefly consider trying a second attack, but decided against it. Despite his long standing arguments with Nicholas, he really wasn't one to beat up against brick wall.

"I don't believe in trying, General. I do."

He clamped his jaw together, giving himself time to think before answering. He _had_ to start acting instead of merely _reacting_ to this . . . this, woman. "If you actually plan on telling me what it is you plan on _trying_," he said facetiously, "go ahead; do so," he continued with outward calm, "otherwise, leave me be. As to _who_, I have already figured _that_ out."

"Good," she replied instantly, rising gracefully to her feet, "that will save long explanations. You, General, known now as Lucien Lacroix, owner of the Raven, are hereby judged. You are summarily banned from everyone and everything you know."

At that, Lacroix laughed, the utter release of every tension he'd felt draining from his body. "And just _how_ do you plan on enforcing _that_ ludicrous bann?" he asked, ridicule almost dripping from his words.

"Easily," she replied, waving a well manicured hand in front of him. "Good bye."

Lacroix opened his mouth, fully intending to cut the arrogant little priss down to size, when the world began to spin wildly around him. He gasped, reaching out a hand to steady himself. It was a useless gesture. Nothing was close enough to grab hold of.

As he fell to his knees everything around him went black. He could see _nothing_. He could hear _nothing_. It took him a moment longer, but he realized he couldn't _feel_ anything either. Every single one of his senses was useless. He couldn't even smell anything -- himself included.

He screamed in silent rage as terror like he'd never know coursed through him. Was _this_ her revenge? Was he stuck forever in this vast void of utter nothingness? His mind gibbered at him, and he knew that if he were to remain here any length of time, he would go insane.

It was then, thankfully, that true darkness claimed him and he knew no more.

TBC  
Kiristeen ke Alaya  
Feedback: Muses thrive on it


	4. Chapter Three

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Chapter Three  
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Lacroix came to with a start, his heart beating twice in rapid succession. To him, used to one beat every few minutes, or so, it felt like it was racing, trying to fight its way out of his chest. He couldn't remember the last time _that_ had happened. Yes, actually, he did. It was when the Spanish Inquisition had managed to get hold of both him and Nicholas, and thrown them in a waiting cell to wait for the Inquisition's version of an 'interrogation'. For a time it had seemed it would be the final end to them both.

Blinking rapidly -- as thankful as he could _ever_ remember being for _anything_, that he was no longer in that place of cold nothingness -- he rose quickly to his feet. His face once again expressionless, hiding everything he felt, Lacroix turned a slow circle, surveying the landscape around him. He didn't recognize any of it.

Of course, considering what had gone on before, he was not surprised. What he didn't understand, was why she thought dropping him some unknown place would have any effect. All he had to do was gain access to one of his myriad accounts, hop a plane, and he'd be back in Toronto before the following night ended. Even the depths of the Amazon -- which this so obviously was not -- would not present more than a momentary irritation. Admittedly, something like that would take longer to return from.

He shrugged, not particularly caring about the stupidity of others, other than for the inconvenience it put him through. With nothing more than a slight sigh, Lacroix picked a direction at random, and after a quick double check to make sure no one was around, took to the air. He didn't have much time to find a place to retreat for the day. The sunrise, though not dangerously close, hovered in the background of his mind. He had 5 hours, he approximated, before the deadly rays of sunlight peaked over the horizon.

_Plenty of time._

He smirked as he realized where he'd been left. A graveyard. _How quaint,_ he thought drolly, musing on the self-proclaimed demon's lack of imagination. He wondered, were he to share this little . . . adventure with Nicholas whether he too would find it amusing. And Lacroix _did_ find it amusing, even considering the irritation factor. He hadn't met a worthy opponent in so long that he was finding this cat and mouse game quite delicious, and he was looking forward to his return fire. He did want to find out how she'd incapacitated him first, though.

_That_, however she'd managed it, had been a stroke of pure genius.

Passing three cemeteries on his flight over the residential area, he felt a wave of gratification as he realized he'd chosen the right direction on the first try. Easily spotting an abandoned alleyway, he set down alone and unseen. He did, however, puzzle over the need for _three_ graveyards for what appeared to be a very small town.

Cocking his head as he extended his senses outward, he quickly located what sounded like a bar -- one of the few businesses that would be open this late. Striding out of the alley, he made a beeline for it.

x-x-x

Xander grinned crookedly at the others. They hadn't been to The Bronze in ages -- not since before The First had been negated. He had been uncertain about coming here. The place held too many memories of times past, times before people had started dying. Now; though he was ready to leave, he was glad he'd come. He could almost forget they'd lost half the potentials in that final battle. He could almost forget they'd lost Anya that day too. Buffy and Dawn were even trading stupid knock knock jokes. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had been relaxed enough to do something _that_ silly. He was definitely ready to go, however.

Willow and Kennedy had stolen off to the dance floor, and he, well, he was watching them move. Kennedy had been good for Willow; he knew. Though, he couldn't quite bring himself to like the girl, she had been instrumental in helping Willow move on, to get past Tara's death.

"What about you Xander?" Dawn asked.

"Huh?" he replied, wrenching himself from his wandering thoughts. He must have missed something.

Buffy laughed, and Dawn giggled.

"We're going out to find someone to dance with. What about you?"

Xander shook his head. "Nah, you two go ahead. I'll just enjoy the view."

The sisters rolled their eyes and laughed -- just as he'd intended them to -- as they rose and practically bounced away.

No, Xander was not interested in dancing. He'd learned his lesson the last time he'd tried to get close to someone. He'd come to the conclusion soon after -- all lame and embarrassing jokes aside -- that he simply wasn't meant to be with anyone. Why else would he keep attracting demons? Or why would he do something stupid to mess up the only two relationships he'd managed to have with women who weren't demons? Well, okay, he'd heard through the grapevine that Cordelia was one now, but she hadn't been one while they'd dated -- at least not literally.

And okay, yeah, Anya had been an ex-demon, but in his book that was different. She hadn't been trying to kill him -- until he'd left her at the alter that is. He was pretty sure that when she'd been trying to get people to wish vengeance on him, after she'd found out she couldn't take it for herself, that she'd have happily seen him dead.

He sighed. Both Buffy and Dawn had found dance partners and he took the opportunity to sneak out. He knew he didn't have to, but he knew he'd give in if they cajoled him into staying, and he just wasn't in the mood anymore.

Letting the door close behind him, Xander inhaled deeply, enjoying the feel of the crisp night air. Being indoors just didn't really suit him anymore. He'd spent so much of his life outdoors that being inside sometimes felt confining. Oh, it felt 'safe' too. There was a reason for the phrase, 'safe as houses'. But sometimes, at times like tonight for example, it also felt nearly claustrophobic.

In high school, he'd consistently snuck out at night to help Buffy and the gang patrol. And after high school; though, he hadn't had to sneak around anymore, most nights found him spending at least part of the night wandering the town, sometimes with the Scoobies, sometimes alone. And then he'd found that ego saving construction job. Half the time on that job he spent outdoors as well -- or near enough as made no difference. Less so now that he was a foreman, but still.

Of course, things had slowed _way_ down when 95% of the town had taken off, but things were picking back up now that people were starting to trickle back. So much damage had been done in those last days that construction crews were working as much overtime as they could handle.

He'd taken only a few steps away from the entrance to The Bronze when sounds from the alley had him doing an abrupt right turn and sneaking around the corner of the building. It was probably only kids making out, but it paid never to make assumptions in this town.

At first glance, it looked as though he'd been right -- two kids macking on each other in the pseudo-privacy of the dark alley. He'd almost turned away when he realized something wasn't quite right. A flash of white that eerily reminded him of Spike -- though the man's back was _far_ too broad to belong to that particular vampire. He froze for only a moment before automatically reaching for the stake he'd learned long ago to keep on him at all times. That was no couple. That was a vampire, and his 'date' was fast on her way to dying.

Sparing no thought to the consequences, Xander charged forward, raising his stake as he neared. Just as he began his downswing, he suddenly found himself staring into gold eyes -- _Gold?!_ -- and found a steel grip around his wrist.

_Oh shit!_ This wasn't some newly risen fledgling, nor was it a minion. He was pretty sure of that instantly. This was someone like Spike -- or Angelus -- someone who had been around awhile. He fought to stay upright as his knees decided they didn't like the abuse he put them through, and were seriously considering going out on strike.

"Surely, you didn't intend this for me?" the white-haired vamp asked.

Xander shivered.

_Damn! That voice should be registered as a lethal weapon!_

He shook himself, angry now that he'd let something as mundane as a _voice_ get to him. "Well, _duh_!" he replied acidly. He jerked backward, trying to escape the vampire's grip. Xander winced as the hold the vampire had around his wrist tightened, and he felt the bones beneath those cold fingers grind together. He didn't let that stop him, however. He kicked out, trying to aim for the vampire's knees. Knees were always vulnerable -- and he sure as hell wasn't in position to try for the one other place that was sure to be even more so.

The vampire easily side-stepped his vicious kick, jerking him forward and then knocking him against the wall before bringing them both back to their original position.

_Well, that certainly did a lot of good,_ he thought sourly. _Not!_

"You would do well to mind your manners, boy. You're not exactly in the best of positions at the moment."

Xander didn't reply -- for a change -- he merely glared. The glare turned into a frown as he suddenly clicked to something else that was odd. "Hey! Where are your bumps?"

"My _what_?" the vampire asked incredulously, a hint of laughter in his tone.

"You know," Xander explained, waving his free hand vaguely toward his own face, "the bumps on your forehead."

The vampire smirked then, which only irritated the hell out of Xander.

_What? Does that damn smirk come with the package deal?_ he thought angrily.

"I have never, to my knowledge, _ever_ had 'bumps' on my forehead."

"Oh," Xander replied weakly. _What the hell?_ The sudden thought that maybe he had run across yet another kind of vampire, turned his stomach acidic, and further reduced his knees to the consistency of jello. He swallowed convulsively.

A questioningly look on the vampire's face, he glanced back over his shoulder toward the woman he'd let drop to the ground. "She a friend of yours?" he asked.

Xander frowned, actually taking the time to look around the vampire toward the woman. "Uh, no," he admitted, "never seen her before."

The vampire snorted lightly, his amazement clear. "You charged me with this . . . sliver of wood, trying to save a woman you've never even _met_?"

Xander shrugged, awkwardly, since the vampire still held his arm in the air. "Seemed like a good idea at the time," he quipped, even as he urged his stomach to quit jumping around.

"You're either very brave, young man, or you're incredibly foolish."

Xander snorted depreciatingly. "A little of both, I'm afraid," he retorted.

The vampire laughed then. "You've got potential, boy. What's your name?"

"P.?" Xander squeaked. He _really_ didn't like the sound of that.

The grip tightened ominously and Xander cringed against a stab of pain.

"I asked you for your name, boy."

Swallowing hastily, Xander tried to wet a mouth suddenly gone very, very dry. "Xander," he replied in a hoarse whisper. "Xander Harris."

"Xander? Odd name."

"Well, it's short for Alexander, Alexander LaVelle Harris," Xander explained nervously, "but I've been called Xander by everyone since I was little. It's more my name now than Alex--"

A hand placed firmly over his mouth cut off his flow of nervous babble.

"Do you always talk this much?"

Xander nodded. "Whn M Nrvs," he mumbled beneath the hand.

The hand was removed.

"What?"

"When I'm nervous," he admitted.

"And your 'nervous' now?" the vampire asked, the smirk returning.

Xander rolled his eyes, but obediently nodded, deciding that maybe, just maybe, if he kept his cool, he might delay the inevitable long enough and Buffy might come out.

"You're not scared?"

Xander clenched his jaw on the resounding 'Duh!' that so desperately wanted to emerge.

"I thought as much," the vampire whispered, leaning close. "Your terror wafts off you in delicious, enticing waves."

_Oh, God!_

"Your blood will be bathed in it, making it sweet beyond comparison," the vampire continued, his voice low.

Xander nearly fainted. Only long practice at being so scared he could barely see straight, kept him conscious. He opened his mouth twice, trying to make some kind of reply, some kind of denial -- hadn't Spike said he wasn't biteable? He clung to that now -- though his mind told him it was a useless gesture.

"Gah!" he croaked as he was suddenly jerked around and he found himself pressed back against the vampire's chest, his trapped hand now pressed firmly across his own chest. He stiffened, immediately beginning to struggle. Despite his desires to the contrary, it really didn't look like he was going to get a last minute reprieve. And to hell with the thought of going quietly. If this was the end -- _Oh, please let it not be!_ he prayed fervently -- he was fighting to the bitter end.

His struggle did nothing but send pain shooting down through his wrist and arm. He'd have bruises tomorrow, he knew.

_Tomorrow?_ a tiny voice inside him asked sarcastically. _What makes you think there's gonna __**be**__ a tomorrow? _

He tried to ignore it.

"Shh," the vampire's voiced whispered soothingly, his mouth so close to Xander's ear that he felt the cool, moist air brush across. "We can do this one of two ways," the vampire continued, his voice almost seductive, Xander thought with a touch of hysteria. "I can make you hurt, make you wish you were already dead," he said. " _Or_, I can let you enjoy it."

"Fuck you!" Xander exclaimed, anger, as well as a new fear tearing through him.

"So be it," the vampire replied, jerking Xander's head to the side, baring the side of his neck.

Xander tried again to break free, only this time, he was held so firmly in place, it made no difference at all.

Lips brushing against the side of his throat made him freeze, his eyes rolling back in his head.

_Did he just __**kiss**__ my neck?_ Xander thought as his terror rose to previously unreached levels. He whimpered. He didn't want to, but couldn't stop the sound from escaping. He couldn't remember a time when he'd been so scared -- not even the very first time he'd seen a vampire. Not even the time Angel had pretended to be Angelus and offered him to Spike as a late night snack, had he felt this absolutely, want to hide in a corner, frightened. This truly felt like the end.

He groaned as he felt twin punctures sink into his throat. _No!_ he thought wildly. _This __**can't**__ be happening! I survived Angelus. I survived a hell god. I can't die at the hands of common vamp!_ His thoughts were interrupted as he suddenly found himself inundated by strange, unbelievable images. Scenes that looked like a toga party gone wild, complete with charriots, flashed through his mind.

He saw a pretty blonde girl, barely into her teens from the look of her, smile at him. He had no clue who she was.

He saw people dressed like they had at the one renaissance fair Willow had talked him into going to -- only these people were surrounded by horses and elegant carriages.

He saw a dark haired woman, eyes golden, fangs gleaming in the candlelight, glide across the room toward him. In the vision, he stepped forward, eagerly embracing her, lowering his head as she bared her throat to him. He hardened instantly, the image erotic beyond imagining.

As suddenly as the images began, they stopped.

A faraway voice whispered in his ear. "Do you want to die?" it asked.

"God no!" he whispered fiercely. With every fiber of his being he wanted to live. _Is he going to let me live?!_ Xander wondered incredulously, a tiny spark of hope igniting inside him.

"Good," the voice replied suavely, filled with a satisfaction Xander didn't understand.

As he felt the fangs sink back into his neck, however, he began to. _No!_ he screamed silently. _I don't __**want**__ to be a vampire._ He truly prayed then. _Please don't do this,_ he pleaded. _Please don't make Buffy have to stake me. Or, God forbid, Willow._

He stumbled forward as he was suddenly released. It took him a moment to figure out he was actually free -- _and_ still alive. The moment he did, he could have wept for joy. It didn't take him long to figure out why he'd been let go. Several loud voices rang out from the darkness. Unfortunately, he didn't recognize any of them, and didn't dare call out, not knowing who they were. He spun around, what little sense he still had at the moment telling him that he didn't want the vampire at his back.

He could see traces of blood at the corners of the vampire's mouth. _My blood!_ he thought. He began backing away slowly. Maybe if he didn't make any sudden moves he would make it.

The vampire's hand darted out, grabbing hold of his arm, and he found himself once more jerked forward until he was mere inches away. The world around him swayed dangerously, and a small part of Xander's mind wondered just how much blood he'd lost.

He gasped as the vampire's eyes locked with his, and he felt his erratic heart beat slow. He felt all his fear, all his confusion fade away.

"Forget," he echoed, his voice a dull monotone. "Nothing strange happened. Want to go home. Yes, cover the bite marks."

Suddenly Xander stumbled and he grabbed the brick wall beside him for support. He shook his head, and instantly regretted it. His head muddled, the alley spinning wildly around him, Xander struggled to ride out the dizziness.

He blinked, and slowly scanned the alley he didn't remember coming into. He frowned as he turned to leave, wondering what the hell they'd put in his drinks. He sure as hell hadn't been _that_ drunk. His frown deepened. As a matter of fact, he couldn't remember having more than one beer.

Letting out an explosive breath, Xander carefully walked out of the alley, and with one last disturbed glance back, he slowly made his way home.

TBC  
Kiristeen ke Alaya  
Feedback: Please feed the muses.


	5. Chapter Four

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Chapter Four  
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Lacroix faded back into the shadows, absently dropping the mortal's body as he watched the boy. Lacroix was confused, and he didn't like it. Confusion was something he didn't often feel. After surviving for nearly 2 millenia, not much surprised him, let alone confused him.

The boy, Xander, had seemed to have potential. He had a certain . . . spark, a certain . . . daring in the face of danger that drew Lacroix like a moth to a flame. It was a foolhardy bravery that didn't deny the danger, but rather embraced it, danced with it, courted its anger even as he taunted it, daring it to do its worst. The boy had done just that with him.

He'd fought, struggled valiantly, but when he'd realized there was no escape, he hadn't wilted, he hadn't given up; he'd changed tactics, taunting his killer to do his worst. The words 'I'll see you in hell,' flitted through Lacroix' thoughts, and he chuckled. He could see the boy throwing those very words at him.

And the _loyalty_; as he'd drank from the boy, Lacroix had nearly drowned in the heady feeling of it. The mere thought of it all turned toward him was beyond intoxicating. It was glorious.

That wasn't what confused him. What did, was the fact that, despite the boys undeniable charms, he was quite obviously delusional. His blood was filled with impossible images, preposterous memories. Fighting demons, indeed, Lacroix thought with disappointed disdain -- though he did have to admit, the boy's imagination was _wild_, the sheer variety of opponents his insane mind invented was truly impressive.

But even more than that, what _really_ had him unsure of how to proceed was how clear headed the boy was. Frightened, insane, and about to die, the boy's thoughts had been pure and focused, his only concerns about what his friends would think and feel.

_Such utter loyalty!_

That deserved respect, praise, reward. _And what better reward than eternal life,_ Lacroix thought. He sighed. Unfortunately, crazies did _not_ make good vampires. They had no sense of restraint -- no sense for even the need for it, really -- which always led them to discovery sooner, rather than later.

Shaking his head, Lacroix pulled out a small knife, one he kept on himself at nearly all times. It payed to be extra careful in these modern times of high tech forensics. Kneeling down, he brought the knife slashing across the dark haired mortal's throat, neatly slicing through the marks his fangs had left.

Not knowing this area, nor the good places to hide a body -- permanently -- Lacroix sliced twice more, making absolutely certain no trace remained of how she'd _really_ lost her life's blood.

_No sense giving a good coroner something to be suspicious of,_ he thought as he jerked the body up and unceremoniously dropped it into the alley's dumpster. It would be just a matter of time before the body was found, he knew, but without anything remotely 'vampire' about the kill remaining, he didn't really care. This wasn't his home to need to be concerned with local mortal's rising fear.

Fastidiously double checking to make sure he hadn't stained his clothing with her, or the boy's, blood -- or anything _else_ that he might have brushed up against in this distasteful alley, Lacroix strode toward The Bronze. It was time to make some phone calls.

x-x-x

Beyond livid, Lacroix whipped into the alley, barely taking the time to make sure he was completely alone before lifting into the air. Once there, he pressed himself as fast as his abilities let him. He seethed. Not a single one of his phone calls had produced results. The numbers themselves hadn't even been _valid_!

Oh, he corrected snidely, one had; Aristotle's number had actually rung through -- to an _Italian_ pizzeria. The irony was completely lost on the irate vampire. All he could see was that he was, indeed, completely alone, completely cut off -- _just_ as _SHE_ had predicted. The call to Aristotle had been a last resort, made after everything else he'd tried had failed miserably. Aristotle, the vampire relocation specialist, would have been able to help him deal with the problems _she_ had caused, but now, even that, was beyond his abilities.

She had even managed to invalidate, or perhaps erase from existence, his credit cards.

Less than an hour's worth of flying saw Lacroix through the worst of his rage, leaving him exhausted, and filled to the brim with the bitter taste of fear, something _else_ he hadn't truly felt in more centuries than he cared to recall.

Letting himself drift to the ground, he was hyper aware of the dangers of pushing himself past exhaustion -- as he hadn't been aware of in almost a full century. He berated himself for having let himself become accustomed to the conveniences of modern day living, for becoming used to being able to pick up a phone, and be assured of a steady supply of quality blood he didn't have to hunt for.

It wasn't that he couldn't hunt; he'd already proved that. It was that it no longer appealed to him as a way to live on a nightly basis. He'd grown accustomed to going hunting when the mood struck, to being able to back off the hunt if circumstances warranted it -- without worrying about going hungry. He _liked_ not having to hunt when he was tired, or otherwise distracted. It was one of the best advantages of having survived long enough to have to put up with irritations of dealing with the bad parts of improving technology.

With a heart-felt sigh, he shook himself out of his thoughts, and took stock of his surroundings. He wasn't overly pleased with what he saw. The neighborhood, though it had obviously begun life as home to the rich, was now rundown and unkempt. There wasn't a soul in sight, or range of his senses.

He looked up as he neared the corner, reading at a glance the street names. Crawford and 14th. Arbitrarily picking a direction, he set off down Crawford, knowing he had to find shelter before daybreak, and that he had less than an hour left to do so. If worse came to worst, he could always bury himself beneath the dirt and leaves, but it most _certainly_ wouldn't be his preferred method of passing the day.

Several blocks of traveling the slow, _mortal_ way, had Lacroix frowning, his irritation growing, once again outpacing that nagging sense of fear he couldn't quite shake. He didn't have time to wander aimlessly, or he really _would_ be burying himself for the day. He heartily wished he dared expend his remaining reserves in flight. Unfortunately, until he figured out where, exactly, he was, he didn't dare truly exhaust himself. He had absolutely no clue as to the . . . etiquette that would be required of him here, nor how often he could safely hunt -- and yes, he definitely realized he wasn't in 'Kansas' anymore. More than that, however, he didn't. He didn't even know if bottled blood was available on a regular basis.

Cautiously approaching the rundown mansion, Lacroix listened closely, but heard no sounds of inhabitants -- legal or otherwise -- nor could he see any signs of them. It took him only a matter of a few more minutes to discern that the mansion was, indeed, abandoned. The large, broken front window that was only partially boarded up, and the fall leaves and debris scattered across the floor, were dead giveaways.

He entered with a sense of relief. It wasn't up to his usual standards, but it could be made so. The place, while so obviously neglected, was in reasonable shape, and what damage was present, would not be too difficult to have repaired -- assuming he could access, or barring that, rebuild his funds.

Having secured himself a reasonably safe shelter for the day, Lacroix began to relax -- not completely by any means, but enough that his thoughts began to stray. The images he'd seen through Xander's blood began replaying through his mind, and he was no longer so certain that the young man _was_ insane.

_She_ had claimed to be a demon, and had certainly looked the part. He shuddered. Now, he was . . . _somewhere_, where nothing was as it should be. What was one more step to believing that, perhaps, demons really did exist, and that Xander had fought them?

Lacroix shook his head, wishing, now, that he'd followed the boy, but, no matter, it should not really be all that difficult to find him again. This town, strange as it was, did not appear to be very large. That settled, he felt slightly better about his current circumstances, and went in search of a windowless room in which to spend the day. Come nightfall, he had much to do. He just hoped the boy had made it home okay.

On the other side of town, Xander stumbled into his apartment, closing the door behind him with exaggerated care. More certain than ever that someone had spiked his drink, he blinked, trying to bring the fuzzy shapes around him into focus. He giggled as he swayed, lightheaded and woozy. _No pun intended! Spike isn't even around._ He shook himself, regretting it instantly as the room spun dangerously around him.

"Okay, damn it! Hold STILL!" Closing his eyes, he leaned heavily against the door, hoping maybe his weight would make the room stop _moving_.

After several long moments, Xander dared open his eyes again. He was immediately thankful that _finally_ the room was behaving itself, and was as unmoving as it was supposed to be. Carefully pushing himself off the door, he locked it, and, one slow step at a time, crossed to his bedroom. He didn't even bother undressing as he fell into bed. He would worry about getting clean when he woke up. Right now he just wanted to slee---

TBC  
Kiristeen ke Alaya  
Feedback: I crave it!


	6. Chapter Five

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Part Five  
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Xander jumped out of sleep with startling alarm. Before he was even fully awake, he was standing across the room from his bed, panting heavily. Gulping, frantically trying to settle the stomach that was threatening to sever _all_ relations with him, he desperately tried to figure out what woke him up. He couldn't see anything to explain his rude awakening, however. He frowned then, realizing he didn't even remember coming home. The last thing he remembered. . . . His frown deepened.

Moving on auto-pilot, he headed for the bathroom, trying to figure out the last thing he did remember. Relieving himself, then stripping, Xander adjusted the water temp before stepping into the hot shower. Leaning into the strong, hot spray, he continued searching his memory. He remembered going to The bronze with Buffy, Kennedy, and Dawn. He washed quickly, despite a strong desire to simply hide under the massaging water until he had this all figured out. He remembered watching Dawn dance, and him having a single -- single, as in, count it _one_ -- beer, a concession to the fact that they were supposed to be celebrating the fact that they were alive.

The last thing he _really_ remembered was watching the girls search out dance partners, and deciding to leave them to their fun. In hindsight, he wished he'd waited and left with them. Maybe, if he had, he wouldn't be trying to figure out what the hell had happened to him. Reaching blindly for a towel, he dried off, not bothering to check his appearance in the mirror as he forced himself to picture leaving The Bronze.

_Oh! yeah_ There had been a sound. He'd gone to investigate. . . . Hadn't he? He had no clear recollection of going into the alley. He didn't like that. In fact, it seriously pissed him off. It had to be magic -- had to be. Unfortunately, he couldn't remember anything unusual at all. As far as he knew -- minus the big, gaping, had to be related to the, even if it was closed, hellmouth somehow, hole in his memory -- it had been a regular, if dull, Sunnydale night.

By the time he was dressed, choosing to wear a never before worn turtleneck that Anya had gotten him the year before, and striding to the kitchen, he'd remembered heading home. The blank spot in his memory calling him back again and again, Xander finally slammed the fridge door shut, not drinking or bothering to put up the orange juice he'd pulled out. After a quick stop at the phone, with him leaving a message on Buffy's answering machine -- which he _hoped_ didn't sound as panicked as he felt -- Xander was out the door, keys to his SUV in hand.

If anyone could figure out what had happened, it was the scoobies.

Unable to keep his mind on where he was going, driving to Buffy's was an exercise in habit. Instead, his mind kept returning to what he couldn't remember, worrying it like a dog would a bone. He simply couldn't move beyond it.

Coming to a screeching halt in front of Buffy's, Xander was out of his vehicle almost before he turned it off. Racing up to the door, he was startled when it opened just as he reached it.

"What's wrong?" Dawn demanded immediately, not even giving him time to get inside first.

_Okay, evidently it _did _sound as panicked as I feel,_ he thought ruefully, but spotting a worried Buffy over Dawn's impatient shoulder, he shoved aside his embarrassment.

"A big _gaping_ hole in my memory is what's wrong," he exclaimed to Buffy, charging inside.

"What?" came the twin replies.

He stopped, frowned, and stared at the two girls. "What part of 'gaping hole' was hard to understand?" he snapped, then closed his eyes as he sighed. "Sorry," he continued quietly. "I'm . . . worried."

"Okay, Xander, just start at the beginning, and tell us what happened," Buffy said firmly. "Why do you think there's a . . . hole?"

Xander paced back and forth across the living the room that suddenly seemed tiny, not even bothering to look at his friends. "That's just it Buffy! I _don't_ remember a damn thing!" he exclaimed, waving his arms wildly. "There's this . . . this black hole where my memory should be. I left The Bronze. I heard something in the alley. I left the alley. That's it. That's all. Finito. Nothing unusual happened at all. I just have no idea how I got in the alley, or what happened while I was there."

"Well, maybe you didn't go into the alley."

"I _know_ I did, Buffy! The very last thing I remember is turning toward the alley because I didn't like the sound I'd heard."

"That's dangerous, Xander. You should have come got--"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Xander snapped again, his worry cutting his patience short. "Can we save the lecture for _after_ we figure out what happened to me? I mean, I wouldn't not go in." He shrugged sheepishly. "You know me. Besides, I remember _leaving_ the alley. The problem is all I can remember is a normal, if dull, Sunnydale night -- nothing unusual happened -- not that I can put my finger on."

Buffy frowned, and Xander saw her and Willow exchange a puzzled, worried look.

"What?" he snapped.

"Well," Willow began hesitantly, "when you said 'Nothing unusual happened', your voice got all monotony."

"Say, huh?" Xander replied intelligently, kicking himself even as the words came out of his mouth.

Buffy repeated the phrase, her voice losing all inflection.

Xander blinked.

"Well, it wasn't quite _that_ bad," Willow admitted.

"But you get the idea," Buffy added.

Xander nodded slowly. "I hadn't noticed."

Willow cocked her head, her eyes brightening suddenly. "It's kinda like when someone's under hypnosis."

"Hypnosis!" Xander squeaked, dropping down onto the couch -- grateful it was behind him right then, because he didn't think he could have stayed standing even if it hadn't been. "That doesn't sound good."

"It might not be that, Xander," Willow soothed, "it's just what it sounds like."

"We'll figure it out," Buffy said, stepping close enough to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Oh!" Xander exclaimed as he jumped back up off the couch, nearly knocking Buffy over as he did. In his excitement he missed the swift narrowing of her eyes and the grim tightness to her jaw. "And when I got home, I was all dizzy like, and every time I moved too fast the room kept spinning around me."

"Xander!" Buffy shouted interrupting his babble, and jerking him around to face her. "When the hell did you get bit, and why didn't you _tell_ me!?"

"What?" Willow shrieked over Xander's response.

"Bit?" he asked numbly, his hand automatically going to his neck. "I got bit?" His eyes widened as his fingers brushed over two raised, rough scabs. "Oh, God," he breathed, panting. He couldn't breath. He'd been bit. He didn't remember getting bit. A wave of dizziness passed over him and he rushed from the room.

"Xander!"

He ignored the two worried voices as he raced directly to the bathroom. In his panic, it was the only place he could remember there being a mirror. He had to _see_ them. They couldn't _really_ be what Buffy thought. They were just, like, bug bites that he'd scratched. _Yeah,_ he thought with a laugh, _just infected bug bites -- __**not**__ vampire!_

_Oh, and Buffy -- 'The Slayer' -- wouldn't recognize a vamp bite when she saw it? _

He squelched the thought. He had _not_ been bit. He would remember that. Nothing could make him forget _that_.

Slamming open the door, Xander skid to a stop directly in front of the mirror, but suddenly faced with the moment of decision, he hesitated. He stared at his reflection, the turtleneck he wore covering his neck, and any _possible_ vampire bites. He swallowed, his gut twisting in nauseated knots. With a trembling hand he reached up, slowly pulling down his collar.

His eyes widened. There they were. Two round scabs sat one above the other, perfectly framing the pulse he could see hammering below his skin. The two angry, partially-healed wounds stared at him mockingly. It was almost as if they were eyes, and not what they so obviously were -- puncture wounds . . . fang marks. He turned numbly toward Buffy and Willow as they watched from the doorway, but before he could say anything, he swayed, a wave of forgotten images rushing in on him. One incident echoed above all the others, terrifying him far more than simply knowing he'd been bit ever could.

"Do you want to die?" asked a faraway voice.

"God no!" he whispered fiercely. With every fiber of his being he wanted to live. _Is he going to let me live?!_ Xander wondered incredulously, a tiny spark of hope igniting inside him.

"Good," the voice replied suavely, filled with a satisfaction Xander didn't understand.

As he felt the fangs sink back into his neck, however, he began to. _No!_ he screamed silently. _I don't __**want**__ to be a vampire._

"Xander?" Buffy asked, jerking him out of the horrifying memory.

"He was going to _turn_ me," Xander whispered, his voice cracking on 'turn'.

"Oh, God," Willow replied.

"You remember." It wasn't a question. Buffy was sure.

He nodded mutely. There was _so_ much he had to tell them, but right at this second, he couldn't have spoken past the constriction in his throat if his life had depended on it. He could barely breathe past it.

TBC  
Kiristeen ke Alaya  
Feedback: Always of the good!


	7. Chapter Six

Thanks for the reviews everyone. : ) Hope you enjoy the chapter!

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Part Six  
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Lacroix paced restlessly. Three days! It had been three whole days, and he was no closer to _any_ of his goals. Three days in which he'd found no clues on how to get home, nor of the boy, Xander. Three days of seeing . . . _things_ that did _not_ exist. It was beyond infuriating. In fact, _he_ was beyond infuriated -- way beyond. He had long since moved into the realm of depression, which was never a good thing. Depression was being upset about things you couldn't change, and he'd never seen the purpose in it. His cold heart had been rarely touched by that insidious emotion, and then when it had, it had only been briefly. He dropped onto the stone bench, letting his head fall back against the wall.

Here he was, stuck in a world -- alternate dimension? -- in which none of the rules he was used to living by, applied. He could move about freely -- far more freely than he could at home. It seemed the mortals here had a built in denial ability that went beyond incredible and well into ridiculous. He could take, and drain, a mortal in full view of a dozen others, and not only would no one interfere, no one would believe it less than 20 seconds later. All that freedom, and did he enjoy it? No; all he wanted to do was go home.

"Damn you to Memnock's hell, Divia!" Lacroix shouted into the silent room.

In his entire two millenia of existence, he'd never believed it possible to miss anyone _this_ much. More to the point, he'd never believed _he_ would ever miss anyone this much. Poets had written odes to this very thing, songwriters epic songs, but it had all seemed remote. It didn't anymore. He felt as if a part of his very being had been torn from him, leaving a gaping hole inside of him that he had not the first clue how to repair. Even the loss of his beloved Fleur hadn't hit him as hard, and he was still feeling _that_ 800 years after the fact.

He closed his eyes, shuddering. He couldn't even _sense_ whether Nicholas still lived. For all he knew, that blasted Natalie may have tried another of her morally challenged experiments and inadvertently killed him. While he knew it wasn't likely -- Nicholas, like all vampires, was difficult to kill -- Lacroix simply loathed not _knowing_. He had followed Nicholas, chastising him, taunting him, loving him, for nearly all of the younger vampire's existence. Finding himself utterly cut off like this was gnawing at Lacroix. It felt as if Nicholas had died, and it made Lacroix' cold, slow-beating heart _ache_.

And _that_ brought him to his _other_ dilemma. Lacroix lurched up off the stone bench, anger once again surging through him. Immediately collecting himself and smoothing down the wrinkles in his silk shirt; he wished he could sooth the unrest inside him so easily. It usually was. He usually refused to allow things he could not change to affect him for long. He didn't count trying to draw Nicholas back into the fold. He still believed that was only a matter of time.

He winced. Time, yes, that precious commodity that he'd thought he had plenty of. Now, he may not. He may never find his way back to where he belonged. It was, truth be told, a terrifying thought. A deep, calming breath later and pushing aside thoughts of home, a disgruntled Lacroix headed _slowly_ toward the door. Tonight was the night. He _knew_ it. Tonight, he would find Alexander.

Over the past three days, Lacroix had caught the boy's scent numerous times, but never caught even one solitary sight of the boy himself. In fact, several places carried heavy traces of the mortal boy's scent: an apartment building, a 'magic' shop, and a well-kept house, but no matter how long he stayed at those places, he never seemed to be there at the same time as Alexander. Of course, of the boy's friends, he'd seen plenty. If he didn't know better, he'd think the boy remembered what had happened and was avoiding being out at night.

That, of course, was just plain ridiculous. The boy had gone under quite easily, and _no one_ resisted Lacroix -- even that doctor person, _Natalie_, a resistor, had succumbed to him. Being an 'ancient' had its advantages, after all. He ignored the little voice that oh-so-helpfully reminded him that he'd drugged the doctor, not being certain beforehand that he _could_ hypnotise her.

As soon as he was clear of the mansion, Lacroix took to the air. He would feed, then seek out the boy. Perhaps tonight, however; he would take a different approach. Following the boy's scent had gained him nothing but bored frustration. Unless, of course, he counted the amazement he felt at watching Alexander's circle of friends. They were _children_, nothing but children, and they'd survived for years -- to all appearances -- fighting in this predator rich environment. He didn't understand how. Although, he thought, the one young blonde certainly seemed strong -- and fast -- for a mortal, and he fully intended to discover the reasons.

_Yes,_ he thought, _follow the friends._ They, he was certain, would lead him to Alexander . . . eventually.

He chuckled to himself as he lit down in the park. Several mortals were still out and about, and he really didn't understand that. Several of them would probably die tonight -- one by his hands certainly. In his three day search he'd seen enough to know that most of the graves in Sunnydale's numerous cemeteries were recent. The obituaries themselves were filled with frequent deaths due to 'animal attacks' -- all after dark -- and it made no sense to him that the local mortals ignored this. He wasn't about to warn them of their danger, however. It made it all the easier for him.

Strolling through the swiftly darkening park, Lacroix scouted which mortal would be his tonight. Even now, he was selective. His eyes brushed over the petite dark-haired young woman. Not only was she within a group, but his mind shied from picking her. He didn't like to admit it, but he knew it was because of Fleur. He was loathe to cut short the already minute lifespan of anyone who remotely reminded him of his precious flower. A moment later, however, his gaze settled on a lithe, blonde woman. Young, she appeared to be healthy, and in the prime of her life. He grinned, sliding back into the cover of the trees, awaiting his moment.

Alone, his target sat on one of the park's benches, reading beneath the strategically placed street-light. She was prime, but her proximity to another group held Lacroix back; long conditioning making him hesitant to reveal himself too rashly. The last time he'd hunted regularly, he had usually done so as part of a group -- the old adage about safety in numbers applying as well to vampires as it did to mortals. Hunting alone was dangerous -- even for one such as himself.

He grinned as the second group left the area, laughing loudly. He remained hidden until he could barely hear their raucous noise before stepping out from the trees and strolling toward the young woman he'd selected.

"Good evening," he greeted her, smiling benignly.

The woman jumped, letting out a short scream as her head jerked up in surprise. "Oh! You startled me."

"My apologies," he replied graciously. "That was not my intent. I simply noticed you reading, and wondered what had captured your attention so fully that you hadn't noticed the sun setting."

Blushing, the woman ducked her head. "Oh, I noticed," she said quietly. "I just didn't care."

Cocking his head inquisitively, Lacroix gestured to the space beside her. "May I?" he asked.

"Uh, sure," the woman replied uncertainly, "I don't exactly own it."

Lacroix almost laughed. It hadn't exactly been the gracious response he'd hoped for -- but it would do. He nimbly sat himself next to her. "My name is Lucien," he said, holding out his hand, palm up, "and you would be?"

"Oh, I'm, K-Karen," she replied awkwardly, staring at his hand a moment before responding with her own.

She tried to shake his hand, but lacroix' carefully firm grip prevented it. Bending over their linked hands, he lightly brushed his lips across her fingers. He smirked as she shivered beneath his touch. He erased the expression completely before once again raising his head. Before he could say anything further, she jerked her hand from his and jumped up.

"I'm s-sorry," she mumbled, "I have to go now." Quickly gathering her things, Karen whirled away, striding away as quickly as she could without actually running.

"Again," Lacroix said, rising and easily matching her pace, "my apologies. I've disturbed you, and that, also, was not my intent."

Stumbling to a halt, Karen turned to stare at him. "What _do_ you want?" she asked warily.

"Nothing too shocking, I assure you," he replied. "I was wondering if you'd care to join me for dinner."

Eyes widening in rampant disbelief, Karen shook her head. "I don't think so," she said. "I don't know you, sorry."

Purposely letting out a disappointed sigh, Lacroix nodded once. "Your loss," he replied, as graciously as if he'd been saying it was his.

Karen's confused and wary expression changed to an angry frown.

Lacroix grinned, allowing his fangs to descend. "I guess I'll just have to dine alone, then," he continued before she could retort, grabbing her arm and spinning her around until her back was pressed up against him. He ignored her scream, as well as the book and purse that fell from her hands as she wildly fought his hold.

Inhaling deeply as he tilted her head to the side, Lacroix wished he had time to savor her properly.

"No, please," Karen whimpered, suddenly going limp.

Disappointed, Lacroix hastily readjusted his grip even as he sank his fangs into her neck. No sooner had he done so, than the supposedly fainted woman in his arms screamed, instantly renewing her struggles. He grinned around his hold. _Too late, my little hellion,_ he thought with glee, glad she hadn't been some wilting damsel afterall. Her hot blood, full of life -- her life -- pulsed into his mouth. He swallowed it greedily, savoring every taste, every image it contained of the woman he held.

Her screams, however, would have to stop. Out in the open like this, they set off every alarm bell within the ancient vampire. He reached up and firmly clamped one hand over her mouth.

"Hey! Pick on someone your own size!" shouted a feminine voice just as Karen's heart began to slow, her struggles ceasing altogether.

Lacroix jerked around, never letting go of his prize. Glaring in the direction of the rude woman who'd dare interrupt his meal, Lacroix' heart double-beat within his chest as he recognized the petite blonde; Xander's friend. Half way across the clearing, she was closing fast -- faster than he'd ever seen a mortal move.

Not stopping his feeding, Lacroix quickly weighed his options in those few seconds the blonde took to cross half the distance between them. _She already knows,_ was his first and foremost thought. If she had been an ordinary mortal, Lacroix would simply have stayed and killed her, thereby assuring her silence. As it stood -- although he was certain he could beat her easily -- he still wanted to find out _how_ she managed to do what she did. That, of course, ruled out killing her, which severely limited his options. Well, that, and the fact that he wanted to follow her in order to find Alexander.

_It's your lucky night, little girl,_ Lacroix thought just as the now furious blonde came within 15 feet of him.

Grinning, and giving the approaching blonde woman an acknowledging nod, Lacroix took to the air, completely uncaring that the woman whose life's blood now flowed within him fell bonelessly to the ground.

"_Xander_! That vampire just flew away! _Flew!_"

_Xander!_ Lacroix smirked. Altering his flight path and quickly landing, he hid himself in the trees just beyond their hearing. Not his, of course.

"Willow? You saw that, right? I'm not going crazy. That vampire _did_ fly. Willow?"

"Ummm, yeah, Buffy, he flew."

There was a long silence, and Lacroix frowned, wishing he could see what was happening.

"Xander? Are you okay," Buffy asked, concern heavy in her voice.

Lacroix was instantly alert. Was the boy hurt?

"Xander?" came another female voice; Willow, Lacroix assumed.

He inched forward, wondering what the two women were so worried about. If they'd let something happen to the boy. . . .

"It's him," Alexander whispered hoarsely, his voice so quiet Lacroix had to strain to hear.

"Him who?" Buffy asked. "Oh! _Him!_ The _big_ him!"

"Oh, Xander," Willow sighed, "you never do _anything_ small do you?"

_They knew!_ Lacroix thought incredulously. _How?!_ was the thought that followed closely on its heels.

"Huh?" Alexander asked intelligently, and Lacroix had to laugh as he was jerked from his thoughts.

"You not only get bit by a vampire--" Willow began, only to have Alexander interrupt.

"Hey! I'm _so_ not the only person in this group to get bit! In fact, Kennedy's the only one present and accounted for that _hasn't_ been. And can we say, _so_ not giving points for the fact that it was _Harmony_ that bit you."

"Hey! Just saying," Willow continued, her tone now indignant, "at least _our_ vamps had proper ridges and _didn't_ . . . um . . . fly."

Alexander sighed, and Lacroix could virtually hear the physical slump that usually accompanied such a sound. "Good point."

"I didn't know vamps could fly," a third female said quietly.

"Neither did I," Alexander replied. "When did they start flying? Did I miss the memo?"

_Memo?!_

"No memo, Xander," Buffy replied, a laugh in her voice. "Spike never mentioned _anything_ about vamps that could fly."

"Hate to say this, Buff, but Spike wasn't exactly on our side voluntarily."

"Well, no, but--"

"No, buts, Buffy. I _so_ can not believe you're still defending him after what he did! He was evil -- pure and simple."

"I really think he loved her," the third female replied.

_Kennedy?_ Lacroix wondered.

"Doesn't matter," Alexander snapped. "Whether he did or didn't -- still don't think he was capable of it -- does _not_ change the fact that he was evil. He may have helped us. He may even have been 'in love' with Buffy, but he was still a demon. He was still _evil_."

Both Kennedy and Willow began objections, but Buffy's quiet words cut them off.

"He's right, guys."

"Which means?" Willow asked.

"It _means_," Buffy replied, "that we _might_ not be dealing with a 'new' kind of vampire, just one we haven't heard of before. Spike wasn't exactly one to volunteer information."

"What about Giles?" Kennedy asked.

"Didn't -- doesn't -- know everything. I'll call him, though."

"Good enough," Alexander said brightly. "I don't know about all of you, but I'm suddenly _really_ not comfortable out here. Are we done for the night?"

"Yeah, I think we are. No other fledges due to rise tonight."

"What about . . . um . . . Xander's vamp?"

"He's _so_ not my vamp, Wills. Not claiming him, no way, no how!" Alexander exclaimed hotly.

"I just meant--"

"No worries there," Buffy interrupted. "He's probably long gone -- for tonight anyway. I scared him off."

_Why that _arrogant _little . . . child,_ Lacroix thought angrily. _Scared me away, indeed!_

"Your days are numbered, little girl," Lacroix muttered softly, promising himself a blonde snack in the near future.

Caught up in his thoughts of mayhem, he missed the first sounds of them leaving, but quickly followed as they left the park. _This is better,_ he thought, _far enough away they won't see me, but I can see them._

'You know, Xander," Buffy said, slinging an arm across the boy's shoulders, "I realize you're 'demon magnet' and all, but--"

"_Don't_ say that!" Xander demanded instantly, jumping out of the girl's friendly embrace. "Bad, bad things happen when that gets said."

"Oh, Xander," Buffy laughed. "It's not like I said--"

Alexander's scream, a full octave above what Lacroix would have expected, cut off whatever Buffy had been going to say. "See!" he exclaimed, jerking his foot and wildly striking the hand that held his ankle -- the hand that extended up out of the ground!

Lacroix froze for an instant, debating whether or not it was worth the risk of coming to the boy's rescue. He darted forward just as the boy's friends leapt in to help. It was then that all hell broke loose.

Lacroix' forward motion was stopped instantly as hands grabbed at him, his momentum flinging him to the ground -- hands like the one that held Alexander. These, however, were attached to large, ugly, _strong_ . . . _things_. Reluctantly turning his attention to his own dilemma, Lacroix' last sight of the mortal group was of them surrounded and fighting for their lives.

TBC  
Kiristeen ke Alaya  
Feedback: A muse's food and an author's dream


	8. Chapter Seven

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Chapter Seven  
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Xander trembled, leaning back against the cold, damp wall. He didn't know how long he'd been down here, but he thought it was about three days -- though it seemed more like forever. He still didn't know what had happened to the others, his last memory before waking here was of Buffy killing one of the demons and sprinting towards him.

The room dark, him bound hand and foot, sounds he couldn't -- and wasn't sure he wanted to -- identify, preventing any reasonable amount of sleep, he was uncomfortable at the best of times. The room, if he could really call it that, wasn't even large enough to lay down comfortably without curling up. The floor, as well as the wall, was damp. Not badly wet, not soaked or anything; but was just enough that it had long since seeped through his clothing, so he was also constantly cold and clammy. He couldn't see much -- vague shapes at most, and he'd spent most of his time wishing he could -- at least a little more. Light was of the good as far as he was concerned. He might even take to sleeping with the light on, if--

_No!_ Xander silently shouted. _Not if, when, __when_ I get out of here!

Every once in awhile, however, the times when he could hear the blood curtling screams sound from beyond the opening to his tiny little room, he was absolutely certain -- well, relatively certain -- he was glad he couldn't.

He'd already tried loosening the ropes that bound his wrists and ankles, but hadn't had any luck. They were as tight as ever, and beginning to cut into his skin. He couldn't see it, but he could definitely feel it. Everywhere the rough rope rubbed with each movement he made was raw and tender.

He hadn't had much to eat. When they actually remembered to bring him anything it was so close to inedible that he had to choke it down despite his ravenous hunger. That was alright, though. He was getting used to that. It was the thirst that was killing him. They brought him water, but not nearly enough. Usually, it was just enough to remind him how thirsty he was.

The fact that there was water everywhere, was like salt in an open wound. He'd gotten desperate enough yesterday -- what felt like yesterday -- to try licking the walls for the miniscule moisture he knew damn well was there. It hadn't helped. Whatever _else_ coated the wall had burned blisters in his tongue, the taste immediately making him lose what precious little he actually had in his stomach. The eventual dry heaves had felt like they were ripping his stomach into shreds. He hadn't tried a second time.

He supposed he should be grateful he _had_ heaved. Whatever it was, was probably poisonous. _Well, duh, Harris!_ He _was_ glad that it seemed to only affect him _inside_, considering he was covered in it -- that and only God knew what else. His captors hadn't exactly been letting him out for bathroom breaks after all -- and that was just something he didn't want to think about.

Frankly, he stank. He had spent his time since his capture alternating between sweating and shivering. It seemed his body couldn't make up its mind whether it was hot or cold, and bathing prisoners was, apparently, not a consideration wherever here was.

He groaned, reluctantly closing his eyes. Sleep was the only thing that allowed him to escape the misery of his current existence. The problem was, when he did manage that elusive state, the dreams began; dreams in which his vivid imagination painted all too clear pictures of what kinds of tortures caused each scream -- and there were many _different_ screams.

His dreams assigned a different fear to each distinct type of scream, his fears growing daily as -- in his more hopeless moments -- he tried to decide which fate he would prefer. Well, prefer just _might_ be too strong a word. Maybe, which fate he would hate least would be more appropriate.

Still, he closed his eyes, hoping that _this_ time would be different. Maybe this time he would dream of rescue. Even better, maybe this time he would wake from that dream only to find dream becoming reality.

Unfortunately, as usually happened here, as soon as he tried, his mind refused to shut down, instead it turned back in time, rehashing everything that had happened that fateful night, trying to see if there was anything he'd done wrong, if, maybe, just maybe, there was something he could have done that would have saved his own ass.

Until _he_ had shown up, it had almost been like old times. The only thing missing had been one pain-in-the-ass vampire -- namely Spike -- and Xander couldn't really say he actually missed that. Of course, the fact that they'd argued about him was pretty much old hat too.

Xander sighed. Then, of course, Buffy had uttered those evil, _evil_ words. He would be willing to swear the hand that reached up out of the ground and grabbed him had scared at least a decade off his life -- which he _really_ resented, cuz, hey, let's face it, living on a hellmouth didn't exactly equate to a long _healthy_ lifespan in the first place.

A sudden scraping noise just outside his 'room' jerked Xander from his thoughts, and he stifled a startled yelp. He cursed inwardly as his movements rubbed the ropes against his raw skin. A shadow filled the doorway, blocking off what little light bled-- _And can we think of a different term for that?_ --into the room.

Xander gulped. As far as he could tell the . . . thing wasn't carrying anything this time, so he didn't think it was feeding time at the zoo. He _really_ didn't want to think about what that might mean, however. As it reached out, Xander scooted as far away as he was able. It wasn't far, but it made him feel a _little_ better.

The monstrous demon laughed -- at least Xander _thought_ that was a laugh -- as it simply took a small additional step forward and grabbed his arm anyway. Xander stifled a scream, but didn't manage to stop all the sound. He was just glad it didn't come out sounding all girly. Scared as he was, he _would_ like to keep his manly dignity intact -- even if he was the only one who would ever know about it.

Gagging as he was roughly pulled up off the floor and into the air. Xander didn't even have time to take advantage of his chains coming off before he landed on the thing's shoulder with a loud, 'Oomph'. Desperately trying not to breathe, he struggled futilely. He groaned. As bad as _he_ smelled, this thing was a hundred times worse. He didn't let it stop him, however, gagging in lung-fulls of the acrid stench he continued fighting his captor. If he could just get free, he _might_ be able to run fast enough to get out of this.

x-x-x

Lacroix paced restlessly, fury not even coming _close_ to describing his mental state. Not since the Spanish Inquisition had he been so . . . foully treated. Incarcerated -- _him_! A metal collar locked around his neck and attached him to the wall via a thick, heavy chain. He'd tried to break it, eyes widening in surprise when the metal not only held, but didn't even give at all -- not even when he'd applied every bit of strength he possessed.

His hands were similarly restrained, to a chain that wrapped tightly around his abdomen. That, irritatingly, kept him from trying to pry off the collar itself. He'd managed to sleep a little, hours after the sun had risen that first night, but it had been fitful, restless, every sound jerking him fully awake and ready to fight.

The opening of the solid, steel reinforced door about half way through that day had sent him flying to his feet, fangs descended. The woman they'd thrown inside, stumbled into him, and he'd caught her by reflex alone, most of his attention on the jailors. They'd shut the door almost as soon as the woman was inside, however, leaving him no options for escape.

He'd almost thrust her away, the stench of her unwashed body sending nausea through him. Born a Roman, at the height of their civilization, he'd always been fastidiously clean. It had been something he had insisted on in all of his children as well. Cleanliness may, or may not, be next to godliness -- as Nicholas' religion preached -- but to Lacroix it was a necessity rooted in the very basics of his being.

Common sense had won out in the end, and he had drained her. He didn't know when his next meal was coming -- or if it would at all -- and he couldn't afford to be . . . picky. That alone, aside from every other reason, was enough to make Lacroix hate his jailors.

That had been 36 hours ago, and except for a brief visit when they'd removed the woman's body -- thank everything he held dear -- he hadn't seen a single trace of his jailors. He _had_ heard plenty, however. The sounds emanating from beyond his prison filled him with both excitement and dread. He could recall ages past and the screams of his own victims as they realized they were going to die, the pleas for mercy when they realized he would use, abuse, and then discard their lifeless bodies.

Not all of the screams here were human, that much was obvious to Lacroix. He wouldn't have believed it before Divia's revenge, but a week in this hell dimension had opened his eyes to things he hadn't previously thought possible. It all left him wondering just what they had planned for him, and it was an unsettling question at best.

The sound of his cell door scraping open froze Lacroix in place as he stared malevolently at who -- or what -- ever was coming. He was startled as a body was thrust through, the door slamming shut just as quickly as it had the first day. Again, he caught by reflex alone, rearing back and clenching tightly as the overpowering -- and familiar -- scent hit his nostrils.

The boy stank, no doubt about that, but it was _Alexander_. Terror widening the mortal's eyes when he looked up and saw just _who_ he'd been caged with, Alexander scrambled backward, desperately trying to wrench himself out of Lacroix' grasp. Surprising both himself and the boy, he let go.

Alexander stumbled backward, his look of terror instantly turning to one of rage. "So, _you're_ the asshole responsible for this!" he spat, then frowned, eyeing Lacroix oddly.

Lacroix smirked, finding humor in this situation for the very first time, glancing down at himself ruefully before responding. "Does it _look_ like I'm responsible?"

"N-no," Alexander replied uncertainly, his fear and hatred of Lacroix so very obviously warring with that of his jailors.

"Oh, come now," Lacroix chastised quietly, dropping his voice to the low soothing tones of his Nightcrawler persona, "did I really hurt you all that badly?" he asked. "You _are_ still alive, and reasonably healthy."

"You _bit_ me!" Alexander exclaimed angrily, and Lacroix chuckled.

"Of course, I did, boy," he replied evenly. "I _am_ a vampire."

Alexander blinked, Lacroix' matter of fact statement throwing him off balance. "You . . . you took my memories!"

Lacroix hid his grin. Alexander was grasping at straws now. "You didn't really expect me to just send you on your way with your memories of what had happened intact, did you?"

"Well," Alexander began hotly, then paused before continuing stubbornly, "yeah."

This was just _too_ exquisite, Lacroix thought, grinning. For all the boy's terror, he wasn't a gibbering mess. Kidnapped by monsters straight out of a child's nightmare, held for three days, then thrown in -- obviously as food -- with a vampire, the boy was managing to hold his own. The grin turned into a smirk as Alexander's eyes widened and he stumbled backward, stopping only when he bumped into the far wall.

"You do realize, do you not," Lacroix said speculatively, "that you're going to have to come over here, sooner or later?"

Alexander frowned, his fear once again over-ridden as outrage took it's place. "Oh, I _so_ don't think so!"

"How do you expect to get out of here, then, if we don't work together?"

Alexander snorted. "And you think I'm dumb enough to fall for that?"

"No, Alexander," Lacroix denied quietly, but firmly, "I do not think you are dumb at all."

Frowning, Alexander eyed him warily. "Right," he drawled drily, disbelief virtually pouring off him.

"I suppose you consider _me_ stupid?" Lacroix asked then, changing tactics.

"What?"

"Or perhaps you think I'm so lacking in self-control that I would attack the one person who might be able to help me get out?"

"N-no. I mean, hey," Alexander back-pedalled quickly, stammering, "I d-don't even know you."

Lacroix listened to Alexander's heart as it beat a steady rhythm inside the mortal's chest, the rapid thumping almost hypnotising. Hunger stirred within him, warring with his control. Part of him did indeed wish to simply drain the boy, savor his essence. He waited, letting nothing of his turmoil show in his stance or expression.

"Hey!" Alexander exclaimed suddenly, outrage returning. "You were going to turn me," he accused with shakily pointed finger.

_Turn? oh!_ "If by that you mean, bring you across, why, yes, I was."

"Ha! See! Like I should trust you after _that_!"

"Do you know what drew me to you, made me want _more_ than to just drain you?"

"No!" Alexander shouted, scooting further away from him.

Lacroix controlled his growing urge to smirk. Somehow, he thought it might be counterproductive. The boy's words said no, but he could feel the curiosity pouring off the mortal in intense waves. Waiting just until Alexander seemed ready to burst -- though he suspected the boy would _never_ actually ask -- Lacroix spoke. "It was your loyalty."

"Huh?"

"Yes, I felt your loyalty to your friends. It was incredible . . . intoxicating, actually. I wanted that loyalty."

Alexander blinked, but didn't move, didn't say a word, obviously stunned.

"Imagine turning that loyalty onto someone who would treat you the way you deserve, someone who wouldn't ignore you, wouldn't push you aside."

Alexander gasped, his eyes protesting Lacroix' words.

"Oh, yes, I saw that too, how your friends pushed you aside time and time again, how it hurt when the did."

"T-they don't mean to, they just--"

"I'm sure they don't," Lacroix agreed smoothly, not wishing to rouse the very loyalty he wished to cultivate. "Come, Alexander, trust me," he urged. His voice low, wafting across the air like brushed velvet, he allowed just the merest hint of the mesmerism power to enter it. He didn't want to hypnotise, he wanted to seduce.

Alexander swallowed, shaking his head.

"I would teach you everything you need to know. I would lavish you with the attention you so richly deserve."

Eyes widening, Alexander tensed. "No," he replied hoarsely. "No, you would turn me. I don't _want_ to be a vampire. _I'd_ still be dead, and a demon would be wrecking havoc in my place," he continued then shrugged, brightening his tone. "Besides, you wouldn't get what you want anyway, cuz it wouldn't be _me_ anymore. So why don't we play nice, and just forget the whole thing. What do you say?"

Lacroix frowned, surprise disrupting his focus. He couldn't believe someone who fought vampires actually bought the 'demon' myth. "What do you mean it wouldn't be you? Of course it would be you."

"Ha! I knew it!" Alexander shouted, his tone once again accusing. "Vampires _so_ cannot be trusted! It _wouldn't_ be me. Everyone knows that. Well," he amended sheepishly, "everyone who's really in the know about vampires in the first place, knows that."

Lacroix blinked, a rueful smile curving the corners of his mouth upward despite his continued confusion. "You really do babble whenever you're nervous, don't you?"

TBC  
Kiristeen ke Alaya  
Feedback: Muchly appreciated!


	9. Chapter Eight

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Part Eight  
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Xander completely lost his train of thought at the vampire's comment -- he wasn't altogether certain he hadn't just been insulted. He drew back into himself before muttering. "Well, yeah, I said I did." But then he frowned. _So what?!_ "What's it to you, anyway?" he asked angrily. "You're just a untrustworthy, lying . . . vampire!"

_Oh yeah, real great insult there, Xander Harris!_ he thought sourly. _Maybe you should steal his little red wagon next!_

The vampire's eyes narrowed, and suddenly Xander remembered this wasn't just some common minion. The partially healed wounds on his neck itched as he was forcibly reminded that it just _might_ be best not to piss off the master vampire. On that note, he became determined to simply keep his mouth shut. Inside, however, he was still babbling. He couldn't believe how _good_ the vampire had made it all sound. He'd come within _inches_ of actually _believing_. He'd _wanted_ to believe.

It hadn't been until the vampire had tried to convince him he'd still be around to 'enjoy' it all that he'd been jerked out of his self-delusional fantasy. Now, he glared, leaning back against the wall, trying desperately not to seem as afraid as he was.

When the vampire's eyes widened fractionally, his face lighting with . . . comprehension? . . . Xander tensed warily. _What now?_

"If I understand you correctly, you believe I am like those . . . _things_ you fought before?"

Xander snorted, rolling his eyes, and this time didn't bother stopping the words. "Well, _duh_!" _Wait!_ "You were watching?"

Smirking at him, the vampire shook his head. "No, I saw them in you, when I drank from you."

Xander shuddered as memories swamped him, memories of vice-like arms pressing him tightly against that solid chest, long, razor-sharp teeth sinking into his throat.

"I'm not like them, Alexander," the vampire said, breaking into his thoughts.

"Stop calling me that! And what the hell do I call you?" Xander clamped his mouth shut after his outburst. Why should he even care?

"Lacroix will do for now," the vampire replied easily.

_Laqua, will do for now,_ Xander mimicked silently. "You are one arrogant, son of a bi--" Xander's words were cut off as he suddenly found himself once again back to chest with the white haired vampire. _How the hell did he __do_ that!? Xander thought frantically, struggling wildly. _I didn't even see him __move_!

"Do not speak of that which you know _nothing_!" Lacroix hissed into his ear.

"Erk!"

A chuckle sounded from behind him, and he frowned. "You do not know my 'mother'. You do her an injustice to call her 'bitch'."

"Yeah, I bet your mother was all sweetness and light," Xander retorted bitterly.

A genuine laugh from Lacroix sent a draft of cool air across his neck and Xander flinched.

_What the hell?_

"Ah, I see, you were referring to my _mortal_ mother. Well, I suppose the appellation might apply in that case."

Xander blinked in surprise, for a moment unable to get his mouth to work. "You refer to your sire as 'mother'?" he asked finally. "How . . . Drusilla of you."

"And the insults keep coming," Lacroix replied evenly, and Xander swallowed convulsively.

_Don't insult the vampire you __can't_ get away from! became his silent mantra.

"So you know Drusilla, then?" he asked, suddenly desperate to keep Lacroix talking.

"No," Lacroix responded, "your tone of voice was enough to tell me how your comment was intended."

"Oh."

"Why will you not trust me, Alexander?"

Xander snorted, but managed to remember his mantra _before_ opening his mouth, and opted to give the most diplomatic answer he could come up with. "You're a vampire. I've, uh, learned not to trust vampires."

"You're repeating yourself, Alexander. I've already told you, I'm not like the creatures you refer to as vampires."

Xander stiffened. He _really_ didn't want to insult the vampire with the _really_ sharp teeth, but he just _couldn't_ let that pass. "Oh, so _now_ you're going to tell me you're not a vampire?"

"No, of course not," Lacroix chuckled. "I am a vampire. I do not know what _they_ are."

This was getting old fast, and Xander'd had more than enough. "Okay, dude, we are _so_ not going to get anywhere with this. I _don't_ trust you. I _won't_ trust you. And speaking of which, holding me like this isn't exactly trust inducing!"

"Why not?"

Xander almost growled his frustration, his fear all but forgotten at Lacroix' utter _gall_! Lacroix continued before he could retort, however.

"I've held you like this, savoring your fear, my teeth inches from your _delightfully_ vulnerable throat, and yet I haven't bitten you. Doesn't that tell you _anything_?"

Xander's mouth wouldn't work. It opened and closed several times, but nothing came out. His brain, however, was working overtime. Unfortunately, it wasn't doing him any good. It was throwing out half thoughts, incomplete retorts, and other generally useless information -- like how close to his throat the _vampire_ forcibly holding him really was -- like how cold the hand that held his arm felt against his.

"N-not really," Xander finally stammered, swallowing hard. He flinched at the frustrated sigh that sounded behind him.

"Do you have any concept just how . . . insulting, your belief that I have no self control is? Do you have any idea how utterly galling it is to be considered as reliable as an untried, unseasoned _fledgling_?"

"Oh, God. No need to take it personally," Xander hurriedly assured. "Not even the few master vampires I've met have exactly been big on the self-control and delayed gratification thing."

"Oh?" Lacroix questioned. "Setting aside the fact that I've already _told_ you that I'm different, how old were these so-called 'masters' who were so lacking in control?"

Xander grinned then. "I'm not sure exactly how old Spike is, but I know he's over a hundred, Angel is over 200."

Lacroix burst out laughing, spinning him around and pinning him up against the wall. "And you think these two 'vampires', Spike and Angel, are old enough to be true masters?"

Eyes narrowing, Xander nodded. "Well, yeah." Of course he did. Angel was, by default, the head honcho of his line. That had to count for something right? _Wait!_ "Umm, you don't?"

"No," Lacroix replied promptly. "They are but children."

"Ch-children?" Xander stammered. "Um, how old are you?" he asked, then hastily added. "I-if that's not a bad thing to ask."

"How good is your history, Alexander?"

Xander groaned. He should have realized there was actually a good reason to pay attention in class, but who the hell knew he'd be getting a pop quiz just before he died. "Iffy," he replied honestly. No sense lying about that.

"Ever heard of the city of Pompeii?"

Xander blinked. He knew this. "Yeah! Um, wasn't that the city that, that volcano destroyed?"

"All the wonders that city had to offer, and _that_ is what it is remembered for," Lacroix remarked sadly. "No matter. I was brought across the night 'that volcano' erupted."

Xander frowned. So how old did that make him? Umm, wasn't that like back in. . . . "Holy shit!"

Lacroix chuckled. "Such language, Alexander. I trust your . . . exclamation means you remembered your history lessons?"

Xander nodded numbly. This dude was claiming to be damn near 2,000 years old. Son of a-- "Why should I believe you?"

Lacroix rolled his eyes. "Very well, I will show you."

"Show me?" Xander squeaked, wishing he could try that question again without looking like an idiot. "How?" he continued, gratified when his voice actually came out sounding normal -- if suspicious.

"You remember the last time we met?"

"How could I forget? Oh, yeah, that's right! You took my memories," Xander snapped bitterly. "Yes, I remember!"

"Good, I will show you the same way I did that night. Only _this_ time, you will pay attention."

"You didn't--" Xander's words cut off as he suddenly remember the images he'd seen. "Oh, no! You are _so_ not biting me, pal!"

Lacroix sighed again, staring Xander directly in the eyes for several long moments.

Just when Xander began to wonder what was going on, the vampire surprised him.

"Very well," Lacroix replied quietly, stepping back and releasing Xander.

Xander gaped at the vampire.

"And you still do not believe me," Lacroix murmured quietly, shaking his head. "Very well. Let me ask you a few questions."

Xander nodded warily. Questions he could do.

"Do you believe I could do whatever I want with you right here, right now?"

Swallowing convulsively, fear churning in his stomach, Xander nodded. He didn't really trust his voice to answer that particular question.

"Do you think our joint captors would do _anything_ to stop me?"

Xander shook his head vigorously, barely moving. He knew they wouldn't. It was obvious what they'd intended when they'd thrown him in here.

"Don't you think that, perhaps, just perhaps, you might stand a better chance -- even against me -- if we _weren't_ locked up here?"

Xander frowned, his eyes narrowing. He had to admit that Lacroix had a good point. He didn't think he'd have much of a chance _anywhere_, unless he could get into a house -- or to Buffy -- but here in this room, he had no chance at all. He just didn't want to admit it. He sighed, closing his eyes. "You're right," he finally admitted.

"It does happen upon occasion," Lacroix replied with a chuckle.

Xander's eyes snapped open and he glared at his cellmate, but took a deep breath and started asking question of his own. It didn't take long to discover that Lacroix had tried to break the chains, pull the ring out of the wall, snap the manacles that held his wrists -- all to no avail. The only thing he _hadn't_ been able to get to was the heavy duty collar around his throat.

After working up the nerve, and inching forward -- like it actually would have made a difference -- Xander spent almost an hour fiddling with the collar, trying to figure out a way to get it open.

"It's no use," he finally admitted, dropping down to his knees. "That's _not_ coming off."

Lacroix growled softly, and Xander forgot to flinch.

"Now, I wish I'd listened to Spike the one time he tried to teach me how to pick locks."

"I thought you didn't trust vampires?"

"I don't," Xander replied flatly. "Spike is, was, a . . . unique case."

"How so?"

Xander sighed, eyeing Lacroix for several moments before shrugging. _Why the hell not?_ he thought. It would certainly pass the time. "Well, at first it was just the same ol' same ol'. But then he got a chip in his head and he couldn't bite."

"What?!" Lacroix hissed.

Xander remembered to flinch that time, scrambling hurriedly backward. In a rush he told the rest of the story, leaving out unnecessarily personal bits along the way. No sense telling _this_ vampire that he'd tied _that_ vampire to a chair, for example. Of course, he didn't mention Spike having actually slept with the slayer. In fact, 'the slayer' didn't come up even once. He _did_ make doubly sure that Lacroix understood he had nothing to do with the chipping of Spike.

"It seems," Lacroix replied thoughtfully, long after Xander's voice had trailed off, "that I have a lot to learn about this world."

"_This_ world?" Xander asked.

Lacroix drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly before he replied. "Yes. Apparently, I'm being . . . 'taught a lesson'."

The corner of Xander's mouth twitched upward, but he hastily pressed his lips together. Somehow, he didn't think Lacroix would appreciate being laughed at.

"Dare I ask who, or what, would even try?"

Amusement danced through the supposedly ancient vampire's eyes as the corners of his mouth twitched upward in a smirk. "You would not just happen to know about 'vengeance demons' would you?"

Xander snorted. "Too much about them, actually."

"Really?" Lacroix drawled, his entire attention suddenly focused on Xander.

"I was engaged to one -- well ex actually."

Lacroix' eyes widened so slightly that Xander almost missed it, but felt a spurt of warmth at having surprised Lacroix. "Was?" he asked -- and did Xander imagine the wariness in the vampire's tone?

Xander sighed, shaking his head. He couldn't believe he was doing this, but he launched into the story of his and Anya's often stormy relationship -- including how it had ended. It didn't occur to him until it was too late that he might have been better served by letting Lacroix believe he and Anya were still together. The vampire did, after all, have reason to be wary of vengeance demons.

Lacroix sat silently after Xander finished spilling his tale. The silence lasted long enough that Xander began to fidget restlessly, and he almost missed Lacroix' first quiet words. As he told his story, Xander couldn't help but begin to feel a little sympathetic. He couldn't imagine what it would be like to suddenly find himself in a world that didn't have Buffy, Willow, and the gang in it.

"God!" he breathed, then shook his head. "What did you do that got a vengeance demon called on you?"

Lacroix' eyes narrowed dangerously, his lips thinning as they pressed tightly together, and Xander sucked in a quick breath. _Okay, maybe that wasn't the most intelligent thing I've ever asked!_

Xander watched as a conflict played out behind Lacroix' eyes. He wasn't sure what the inner debate was about; he just hoped he ended up alive at the end of it. His eyes widened as Lacroix began to speak, slowly, hesitantly at first, as if he couldn't believe the words were coming out of his mouth. Almost immediately, Xander found himself caught up in the flow of the ancient vampire's words as he wove a strange and very old story. He could almost see the streets of Pompeii the night he was . . . brought across.

"Your _daughter_ turned you?" he yelped in surprise, interrupting Lacroix' narration, wincing when the sharp eyes focused on him once more. "That must of sucked!" He paused, grinning ruefully. "Um, no pun intended."

Lacroix laughed. "You have the most . . . interesting turns of phrase, Alexander Harris. But to answer your implied question; it was, to say the least, awkward at first. The power shift alone was unsettling."

"I bet!" Xander exclaimed, reeling from the conversation he was having. It didn't seem quite real. Time wore on, however, as Xander asked questions, and to his surprise, Lacroix continued answering. He found himself in the strange position of having to add another category to his definition of vampire. At first there had only been one: vampires bad, kill on sight. Then along came Angel, and he'd had to add a second. Souled Vampire: hate, but don't kill. Then the initiative had messed with Spike, and Xander had found himself adding a third category. Chipped vampire: pain in the ass, hate, but don't kill. Now, entirely against his will, he was adding yet another slot. He wasn't quite sure, yet, what to put in it, except -- Lacroix.

Lacroix was everything he'd learned vampires weren't. He was well-spoken, his voice cultured and pleasant, soothing even. Most startling, however, was Lacroix' calmness. The ancient vampire practically oozed calm confidence. He spoke of things other than blood, violence, and torture. Rather, he spoke of culture, music, family, and duty. He wove tales so vivid that Xander almost felt like he was there.

A subtle longing in Lacroix' voice alerted Xander that the vampire was not as . . . matter-of-fact about it all as he tried to appear, and a suspicion began forming inside Xander. He wondered if Lacroix had ever had anyone he talked to. He was near to tears by the time Lacroix finished telling him of Divia's final death. No matter how much he hated vampires in general, even he could see the love Lacroix had held for his -- what the hell was she? Had he considered her his daughter or his sire? Either way, her death had to have been devastating.

Xander rolled over, trying to get comfortable on the hard floor. He had to admit, he had enjoyed the conversation. Unlike the one's he'd had with Anya or Spike -- even Angel for that matter -- it hadn't been peppered with sidelines to torture, killing, and/or violence in general. Oh, he wasn't deceived into thinking there hadn't been any. He wasn't convinced that Lacroix was _that_ different. He did, however, now believe that he _was_ different. All the proof had been paraded before him, and he had no choice but to believe it. How different remained to be seen; though Xander now intended to at least _try_ and keep an open mind.

TBC  
Kiristeen ke Alaya  
Feedback: A muses inspiration!


	10. Chapter Nine

AN: Thank you very much everyone who reviewed and encouraged me on this story. : ) I apologize for the unexcusable length of time since my last post and will try to do better in the future.

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Part Nine  
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Xander jerked awake with a scream dying on his lips, the images from his nightmare still dancing behind his eyes.

Lacroix sat down beside him, but Xander was saved trying to make awkward post-nightmare conversation when an explosion rocked their cell. Both men leapt to their feet -- well, Xander leapt; Lacroix rose gracefully. For just one split second, Xander really envied that poise.

"What was that?" Xander exclaimed.

"An explosion, I would presume," Lacroix replied drily.

Xander rolled his eyes. "I _know_ that," he snapped. "I _meant_ what caused it."

"I see," Lacroix began, but before he could finish, a second explosion rocked the floor beneath them, sending Xander stumbling backward against the wall.

"Okay, one time is interesting," Xander muttered, a new kind of fear sending his heart thudding in his chest. Glancing around them warily, he wondered whether the building was going to come down around their ears. "Twice moves firmly into the scary category." No sooner were the words out of his mouth when a third explosion sent them both to the floor. Knees aching, Xander was on his feet a second later, something deep inside him not wanting to meet death on his knees. "And three is just _too_ damn many!"

He jumped when the door to their small prison groaned, and with an ominous shudder, swung open. _No way!_ he thought, his mind denying the reality even as he raced toward the door. The clatter of chains caught his attention just as he reached the doorway and stopped to peek out to see if the coast was clear. It was. Now was his chance. He could run. He could leave this place _without_ the help of the vampire who had tried to turn him. He took one step out into the hall, stopped, and glanced back.

Lacroix watched him passively.

Xander couldn't tell from his expression -- or rather lack of expression -- what Lacroix felt about their current change in circumstance. He was sure, however, the vampire's apparent calm was a cover. No one could be that calm when it looked like they were about to be buried alive -- well, undead in Lacroix' case.

_Run!_ he told himself. If he left Lacroix behind, he wouldn't have to worry about him anymore.

_Unless he manages to get free; then, you've got one very brassed off vamp to consider._

"Shit!" Xander exclaimed, darting back into the room. He couldn't just leave the vampire. There was something wrong with leaving behind the guy you spilled your guts to about your disastrous love life. "Maybe the ring got loosened in one of the explosions?" he suggested as he grabbed hold of the chain attaching Lacroix to the wall.

Lacroix shifted, settling in beside him and both men pulled. Nothing.

Xander frowned and continued pulling, putting his entire weight behind it. And still nothing.

He was about to give up when the shriek of tearing metal pierced his ears. He shared a grin with Lacroix -- well, he grinned, Lacroix smiled slightly -- and both men began tugging in earnest. He felt the slightest give in the chain, but he was beginning to panic. They were taking too long. Someone was bound to come by and realize their door was open. Once again, he was tempted to leave Lacroix behind. What with the weakened chain, he reasoned, the vampire could most likely get out on his own anyway.

Before he could come to a decision, the wall cracked, the groan reverberating around the room with dust, small pebbles pelting them from the ceiling. With one more solid yank, the ring came free from its damaged mooring, and both he and Lacroix stumbled backward.

Xander glared up at the vampire from his place on the floor. "You could have at least _pretended_ to lose your balance you know," he said sourly.

Lacroix chuckled and reached down as best he could, offering a hand up.

Hesitating only briefly, Xander clasped the cool hand and allowed himself to be hauled upright. He wasn't quite sure what to make of Lacroix' tiny little half-smile, though. It was kinda wiggy.

"Thank you."

"What? Oh, yeah. No big," he shrugged. "What say we get out of here?"

Lacroix nodded. "That sounds perfectly acceptable to me."

"Right, whatever," Xander retorted, rolling his eyes and heading for the door at a trot. He was _so_ out of here! He kept his eyes open as they ran, twisting and turning through the maze like tunnels. Each 'cell' like the one he'd been in before getting shoved in with Lacroix, he peeked in as he ran past. No way was he leaving _anyone_ trussed up while this place fell to the ground, or caved in, or whatever.

_And the others just might be in here too._

Xander shuddered. He hoped they'd got free, and that he'd been the only one taken. It wouldn't really surprise him given his past history.

Rounding the umpteenth corner, Xander skid to a halt. Bending over and bracing his hands on his knees, he just gasped in huge gulps of air, desperately trying to catch his breath. He was standing in a six way . . . intersection, and didn't dare stay there long -- ahead of them, about fifty yards away, were several dozen of the demons that had captured them. Fortunately, they didn't seem to notice either him or Lacroix.

The problem was, he didn't know which way to turn. Pick the wrong direction and they might never get out.

"This way, Alexander," Lacroix said, pointing slightly ahead and to their left.

"You're sure?" he asked, straightening.

Lacroix nodded. "Yes, I can smell the fresh air."

"Good enough. Let's go." He didn't trust vampires; their will to survive and their senses, however. Well, that was a different story.

Xander was three quarters of the way across the intersection when a flash of blonde hair caught his attention. He whipped his head, peering toward it. He _had_ to know if it was Buffy.

"Come, Alexander. We don't have all night."

Just then a demon went flying and he caught sight of the face that belonged to the hair. "Buffy!" he exclaimed, then winced, hoping it hadn't been loud enough to distract her. He automatically started her direction, but was forcibly stopped when Lacroix grabbed hold of him.

"What on Earth are you doing?" Lacroix hissed in his ear.

"I've got to help Buffy," he retorted, struggling uselessly against Lacroix' hold.

"I hate to point this out, but she seems to be holding her own, and in case you hadn't noticed; there are about 20 of those . . . things, between you and her."

"Demons," Xander corrected, stilling. "And I don't care. The Scoobies don't leave anyone behind."

"Very well, demons," Lacroix replied with a sigh. "This is for you own good, Alexander," he said, jerking Xander up into the air.

Xander blinked, not quite sure how he'd ended up thrown across Lacroix' shoulder -- especially considering the vampire's hands couldn't move more than half way up his chest. _Neat trick!_ Xander thought, but no sooner did the words pass through his mind than he began kicking and struggling.

"Be still!" Lacroix hissed.

"Put me down!" Xander demanded back, just as careful as the vampire to keep his voice down. He didn't want to attract the demons' attention just yet, either.

"I will not, Alexander," Lacroix replied calmly. "If I put you down, you will wade into the middle of those demons, and then you will die," he continued. "I cannot allow that."

Xander stilled instantly, startled by Lacroix' words. He sighed heavily, dropping his head. _Damn it! Why me?_ Taking a deep breath, Xander made sure he remained as outwardly calm as Lacroix -- though inwardly he was sick with worry. How was Buffy doing? Was she free already? Or not so good, was she dead? "If you do not put me down, Lacroix, I will _never_ forgive you."

"Never is a very long time, Alexander," Lacroix replied urbanely, not slowing, and pointedly not putting Xander down.

"I'm well aware of that!" Xander snapped angrily. Forcing himself to take a deep calming breath, he continued softly, his words filled with quiet conviction. "I am completely capable of holding a grudge. In fact, I'm very good at it; just ask Angel or Spike. Of course, you could simply take my word for it. If we leave here without helping Buffy, not only will I never forgive you, I will hate you for the rest of my life."

Lacroix' step faltered slightly, and Xander crowed silently. The feeling didn't last long, because Lacroix shook his head and continued moving. Every step put them further from helping Buffy, and Xander was fast losing hope he could convince Lacroix.

"_Please_," he pleaded.

Lacroix slowed, but didn't stop. "I cannot, Alexander. I _am_ sorry, however."

Xander was desperate and out of ideas. "I swear, I'll do anything you want if you help me."

Lacroix stopped, and Xander suddenly found himself sliding down Lacroix' body. As soon as his feet touched the floor, the vampire had him pinned against the wall.

"Let me get this straight," he said softly, his mouth mere inches from Xander's ear, "first you wanted me to let you plunge into battle with the demons that _I_ couldn't defeat, and _now_ you jump to wanting me to dive in there with you?"

Xander nodded, trembling. "Yes?" he said hesitantly.

"And if I _do_ allow this . . . insanity, you've given your free consent for _anything_ I wish?"

_Oh God! I did say that, didn't I?_ "Ummm, except letting you turn me."

"And there are conditions now."

"S-sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Lacroix snapped angrily. "Say what you mean the first time."

"Uhh, okay. I'll do anything you want -- barring letting myself get turned -- if you help me get Buffy and any other of my friends that are here, out -- alive."

Lacroix pulled back and locked eyes with him. "And that's it?" he asked. "No other conditions, no other . . . tasks?"

Xander frowned, and thought carefully before answering. His mouth got him into trouble more often than he cared to admit, and he didn't want that to happen here. He was making the proverbial deal with the devil. Swallowing nervously, trying to wet a _very_ dry mouth, he nodded. "Yes, that's it."

"And if I cared to--" Lacroix paused, pulling back enough to let his eyes roam the length of Xander's body and back up. "--take advantage of that _delicious_ body of yours?"

Xander's brain shut down. "What?" he asked. It didn't sound like Lacroix meant in the normal vampire way, and he _really_ didn't like what the mental images that were slamming through his brain. Surely he didn't mean. . . .

Smirking, Lacroix leaned forward, until his mouth was only a breath away from Xander's. "I asked you, what if I wanted sex?"

Xander gulped. "I thought that's what you meant." Xander's thoughts whirled. He hadn't imagined that might be the price. "And if I say no to that?" he asked.

Lacroix smirked. His tone was cold, however. "You gave only one condition, if you suddenly insist on two, we leave here. No second chances."

Groaning, Xander closed his eyes in dismay.

"However, I _will_ give you the chance to change that condition."

His eyes popping open, Xander stared at Lacroix. "Ch-change it?"

"Yes, remove your first condition and replace it with the other."

"Oh, God."

"I assure you, Alexander, your God has nothing to do with this situation."

Xander thought fast, finally admitting he didn't have much of a choice. "O-okay."

"Which condition?" Lacroix demanded. "I want no misunderstandings after this is all said and done."

"Come on!" Xander urged, not really wanting to make that decision right that second. "She could be dead already. If she is, all bets are off!"

Lacroix didn't let him go. "Then stop wasting her time. Decide now."

_I can't do this!_ Xander thought in near panic. "F-fine. The c-condition I choose to stay, is--" He gulped again. "--no turning."

"Very well," Lacroix replied easily, releasing Xander and heading back the way they'd come.

Stunned, Xander didn't move for a second or two, but as soon as his brain kicked in, he quickly scrambled after Lacroix. He just prayed they'd get there in time, conveniently pushing aside everything that didn't immediately concern him. Everything _else_ would just have to wait. He couldn't deal with it just yet.

TBC  
Kiristeen ke Alaya  
Feedback: Oh, yes please!


	11. Chapter Ten

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Part Ten  
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Lacroix found himself watching the petite blonde as he continued his own battle with the ugliest creatures he'd _ever_ had the misfortune to run across; though, most of his attention was focused on keeping himself and Alexander intact. He had to admit, at least to himself, that this mortal moved with far more grace than most he'd come across, the beauty he saw being her incredible strength.

Within seconds of his and Alexander's arrival several more of the demons fell. Surprising him, the blonde noticed his presence almost immediately, her eyes narrowing with glittering anger. He smirked - and made sure to keep several of the demons between them. No sense tempting fate. Somehow, he suspected Alexander would consider it a break in their agreement if he killed her - even if she attacked first.

"It's okay, Buff; he's with us," Alexander shouted over the sounds of the battle, jerking Lacroix' head around in shock. He certainly hadn't expected _that_. Loyalty _and_ honor, a . . . deadly combination.

A powerful, reeking fist connected solidly with his jaw, snapping his head back. Had he been mortal his neck would have snapped. He didn't like that. Launching himself toward the demon, Lacroix brought the vampire to the surface. "You will pay for that," he hissed quietly.

"What?" Buffy exclaimed incredulously, her gaze flickering only briefly toward Alexander, her fight continuing unimpeded by her shock.

Alexander ducked and stumbled, scrambling away from two demons, laughing as each struck the other instead of him. "Can we talk about this later?" he asked, panting. "I'm kinda busy here."

Lacroix snorted, breaking the neck of his current opponent. As soon as it dropped another took its place. Lacroix dodged, then charged, ramming his shoulder into the demon's gut. As it stumbled backwards, however, he began to realize it was one he'd _already_ defeated.

Growling, he edged toward Alexander. "How do you keep these 'demons' down?" he demanded angrily.

Alexander shrugged, ducking one of his own, grinning as the massive demon punched the wall right behind where he'd been. "Buffy!" he shouted, never removing his eyes from his attacker. "How do you kill these things?"

"Their eyes!" she shouted back, demonstrating ably as she rammed her thumbs into the one tackling her.

"Ewwww!" Alexander shuddered, but didn't hesitate before jumping one demon's back. "Gah!" he exclaimed as he followed Buffy's instructions.

Lacroix agreed with Alexander's assessment; it was a messy way to kill. He shoved the thought to the back of his mind as the three of them fought on, one demon after another falling to the floor - finally not getting back up again. In the midst of it all, Lacroix noticed other mortals arriving - the ones that had been with Alexander in the park. He kept his eye on them, but didn't otherwise react to their arrival.

He did notice the rather odd way each member of this growing group absently acknowledged each arrival without letting it interfere in the battle. It was actually quite fascinating to watch, and if he hadn't been in a fight that posed the most danger to his continued existence than he'd been in in centuries, he would have studied them all far more closely.

He _did_ notice however, that the life or death struggle eased somewhat with the addition of the two females. That in itself was extraordinarily surprising. When he added in the fact that he was suddenly seeing demons who had no visible opponents hurtle away from one of them to land in undignified heaps, he was more than just a little intrigued by the newcomers. Just what were they? The other was fighting in a style very similar to that of the blonde.

Even above the rising stench of both the living and dead demons he could tell the two girls were mortals - as far as he could sense _ordinary_ mortals. Their actions, however, proved otherwise. What surprised him the most, however, was the blonde - Buffy. She matched him kill for kill. In his existence he'd come across only a few vampires who could do that. The fact that she did so . . . impressed him.

As the last one fell, Lacroix was surprised to find the five of them back-to-back, surrounded by slowly liquifying corpses. While from a strictly objective point of view, he'd known the positions of everyone, and everything, in the room the entire time. It was another thing entirely to realize on a completely emotional level that he'd allowed this dangerous . . . _mortal_ to guard his back. It was quite . . . disconcerting.

He slowly turned to face the other four survivors, raking his eyes down Alexander. He was quite grateful to see that the boy seemed relatively unharmed. _Amazing,_ he thought.

He was interrupted as the red-headed girl spoke. "As far as I can tell, these were the last of the hold outs. The others ran almost as soon Kennedy and I began blowing the place apart."

_How?_

Buffy nodded once, firmly. "Good," she said, then turned to face Alexander. "Okay, explain now," she demanded, her tiny hand clutched around a small wooden stake.

Despite the fact that he had long since figured out that appearances were quite deceiving, he noted she looked quite ridiculous. The corner of Lacroix' mouth twitched upward - though he firmly quashed the urge to smirk. Did she really think that tiny . . . _toy_ would destroy him - even if she somehow managed to get close enough to actually use it?

"Buffy," Alexander began, "we made a deal. He came here to help you fight these things, instead of just making his escape."

"Well, that gets him one vote of 'yay!" from me," the red-head said brightly, grinning at him.

He snorted, not quite sure what to make of the girl. Manners, however, took over and he bowed his head to her, formally acknowledging her succor. He may not care overmuch for most mortals, but he always gave credit where it was due.

Buffy growled and Lacroix' eyebrow shot up. The little girl was _growling_ at him?

"Buffy," Alexander pleaded quietly.

Buffy rounded on Alexander - though Lacroix noticed she didn't relax her stance. "Just tell me this _isn't_ another Spike thing, because," Buffy slumped. "I don't think I could handle another Spike thing."

"S-Spike?" Alexander stuttered out questioningly.

Lacroix got the distinct impression there was a _very_ long story behind this 'Spike thing'.

"W-why would you make that comparison?"

"Xander?" Buffy questioned warningly.

"Perhaps - if I may make a suggestion - we should take this conversation to safer - and less . . . aromatic - surroundings?"

Buffy started, then looked sheepish. "Yeah, that'd be a good idea." She turned to stare hard at Lacroix. "That doesn't mean I trust you."

Lacroix did smirk then. "Of course not," he purred.

Buffy blinked up at him, frowning suddenly. "Just know I'm watching you!" she snapped, before stomping off.

"Quite paranoid, isn't she?" Lacroix murmured before following more slowly.

"Yeah, well, she's had good reason to be, what with-"

"Alexander," Lacroix cut in, waiting until the boy focused on him before continuing. "I did not say I thought that was a bad thing. I've discovered over the years that a certain amount of paranoia is very necessary to long term survival."

"Oh," Alexander replied, completely stumped by his response. Shaking his head, the dark-haired mortal turned and followed his friend.

Only a moment later, Lacroix followed as well. Smirking, he mused that this day had ended on a far better note than he'd expected it would as little as an hour ago. Not only was he free of those insidious chains, the like of which he'd never before encountered, he was moments from true freedom. Additionally, he had extracted a promise from the most honorable - if the memories Lacroix had seen were to be believed - mortal he'd met since first encountering Nicholas de Brabant. Yes, this world, even with its oddities and uncertainties, might not be so bad after all.

Glancing down, he grimaced. His usually immaculate clothing, covered in several days worth of grime even before the fight, was now also layered in inordinate amounts of foul smelling blood - the repugnance of the scent surprising him no small amount - and unidentifiable bits of demon gore. He need a bath - hot and long - and he needed a change of clothing. He wasn't entirely certain where he was going to get either. It was another in a series of firsts after a long draught.

x-x-x

Stepping out into night had never felt better. Xander breathed in the crisp, pre-dawn air, wincing as he caught a wiff of his own unwashed body. _Sour sweat mixed with demon entrails; Yum!_ Xander thought sarcastically. _Could be the next Old Spice - NOT._ He shuddered and shoved the thought aside. He was alive, worrying about his oh-so-lovely body odor could wait until he was physically safe. He'd just stay safely far enough away from anyone else to keep the embarrassment factor down as low as it was humanly possible.

On the heels of that thought, they reached the street and Buffy stopped and turned around. Xander came to an abrupt halt, backpedalling quickly to avoid getting too close to his friend. If he could smell himself, he hated to think what others could smell. It really didn't bear thinking about.

"Okay, we're far enough now," Buffy said then frowned, "and on good old, _hard_ cement. Talk. Explain."

"We were locked in together. He could have killed me, but didn't. The explosions started. We got loose. We found you on the way out. I got him to agree to help you. We helped you. We're free," Xander replied, knowing he was _really_ shaving the facts down to the absolute minimum, but he didn't want Buffy to know the whole story, because she just might get really pissed, then where would he be?

_You wouldn't have to worry about a bargain made._

Xander bit his lip as he gave serious thought to the that. The guy was a vampire. Xander hated vampires. He really shouldn't worry about promises made to the bad guys. He groaned. No, he couldn't do that.

"Okay, going to need the slightly longer version, Xander," Buffy replied shaking her head as she smirked.

"But not right now," Willow ordered firmly, grinning, then suddenly launching herself at him. "Xander!" she squealed. "You're okay!" she continued as she squeezed him tightly. "We were so _worried_ about you."

Just when he thought he might have to protest lack of oxygen, she released him as suddenly as she'd latched on.

"Ugh!" she exclaimed backing away. "No offense, Xander, but you _really_ reek."

Buffy laughed then, bending over and holding her stomach.

Xander glared at them both, even as he blushed beet red.

"I could have told you that from way over here," Buffy said after she got her laughter under control. "Sorry, Xander, but I'll save my hugs till we get you all nicely showered."

"Feel the love," Xander quipped, but couldn't help but feel a little hurt that she cared so much about that. He could have _died_; he was sure he'd come close several times. Beside him, Lacroix finally stepped forward.

"Perhaps," he suggested mildly, "we should take this discussion indoors?"

"Tell me again why he's still here?" Buffy ground out, glaring at Lacroix.

"Because I made a deal with him," Xander replied quickly before Lacroix could. He could see the vampire was not taking kindly to Buffy's continued belligerence. And somehow, he thought that just maybe, even Buffy would have difficulty handling a 2,000 year old vampire. The dude could _fly_!

"I didn't," she replied, stalking forward.

"Damn it, Buffy!" Xander exclaimed, stepping between his friend and her target - a target he wasn't _really_ so sure he wanted to protect in the first place. Only that annoying thing called honor made him do it. "I gave my word! The agreement was made to help save you. By inference alone, that means you shouldn't try to kill him - at least for 24 hours."

Frowning, and muttering, Buffy backed off. "Fine, he's got those 24 hours, unless he does something to break the truce. I don't allow killing in _MY_ town without striking back."

Behind him, Xander could almost _feel_ Lacroix' rising anger. This situation was spirally out of control, and he knew with growing certainty that if something didn't stop it, someone he cared about was going to end up very dead. Then he _would_ have to break his word, because he couldn't let anyone get away with that.

"And is there a place in this benighted town you call home that I might find . . . sustenance without hunting?" Lacroix asked, his voice deadly calm - sounding very doubtful to Xander.

"Yes, actually," Xander replied, turning to face the vampire. "Willy's place. It's a demon hangout. They serve all sorts of drinks that are better left to the imagination - including blood."

Eyes flashing, Lacroix nodded after a moment. Then stepping to the side, he spoke directly to Buffy. "Very well, 'Buffy', in respect for your . . . claim on this town, I will not hunt for the next 48 hours. I would, of course, expect you to grant the courtesy of extending your side of the agreement to that length of time."

Xander stared at the two of them as they stared at each other, Lacroix, haughty and formal; Buffy, suspicious, but considering. It was like watching some ancient ceremony. It reminded him forcefully of some of the old movies he'd seen where two opposing samarai warriors faced off. Unnerving, was what it was.

Finally Buffy pulled herself up straight, matching Lacroix' stance. "I'll agree on the condition that when the 48 hours is up, you leave town. Otherwise you get 24 hours to get out of town before I come after you."

Xander saw Lacroix stiffen, but was surprised to see amusement in his expression. He wasn't quite sure what to make of that. Well, obviously Lacroix didn't think she stood a chance against him, but beyond that. . . ?

Again Lacroix nodded, "In 48 hours I will either have left," he said smoothly, the smallest of knowing grins curving the corners of his mouth upward, "or I will have . . . renegotiated."

Xander gulped. _Now, why doesn't that sound like sending a dozen roses and asking politely for the truce to continue?_

He didn't have time to voice those thoughts, however, before Buffy nodded, the agreement made. She strode forward, hand out, and with a surprised arched-eyebrow, Lacroix extended his own hand.

Xander wasn't sure, but he thought he saw the briefest flair of surprise in the vampire's eyes. _Why?_ Xander wondered. Had it been the strength of Buffy's grip? _No, he wouldn't be surprised about that by __now_. They fought side by side. Maybe it had been the _lack_ of strength Buffy used in her grip. Xander shook his head. Right now, he didn't have the energy to figure it out.

He was about to suggest a return home - at least for him - when Willow latched onto his arm pulling him away from the immediate circle of people - and vampire.

"Xander," she whispered fiercely, "you need to be careful."

Xander frowned down at her, then laughed. "You think there's something _not_ obvious about that?" he asked pointedly, looking at her skeptically.

Willow shook her head. "I'm serious, and I mean beyond the obvious. I think- I mean I'm pretty sure-"

Chuckling now, Xander put a finger over Willow's mouth. "Quit hedging and just say what you want to say."

Glaring it him over the finger that held her voluntarily silent, she took a deep breath and nodded. She spoke as soon as he removed his finger. "I think he _likes_ likes you," she blurt out, still speaking in a whisper.

"That's what you're worried about?"

Willow nodded.

"I kinda figured that out already, Wills. I _did_ spend a couple days locked up with him."

"You mean-" Willow gasped and her eyes widened until she looked like red-headed owl.

"No!" he yelped. "I just mean I figured it out."

_Of course, it was kind of easy with him pressing me up against the wall, and the way he blatantly eyed me up. I certainly never had a girl nervy enough to do it like __that_. Of course, the fact that he mentioned point blank it was a definite possibility, was kind of a big clue, too. He shifted uncomfortably, not liking his train of thought.

"Geez, Wills, you're still the only one batting for the other team."

Kennedy, hovering just far enough away to give the illusion of privacy, hesitantly stepped forward at that point. Both he and Willow turned toward her. She didn't often give off that kind of hesitancy.

"There's something different about his aura, too," she offered quietly.

Xander frowned. "What do you mean?" This was the stuff he didn't understand, but knew that Kennedy was very new to sensing these kinds of things, having learned a little about it from Willow.

Willow frowned too, but she, instead of questioning, look over at Lacroix.

Xander watched as her eyes seemed to lose focus. With a quick glance, it looked to Xander as if Lacroix was ignoring them in favor of conversing with Buffy. Though, judging from their expressions, it wasn't exactly tea time topics.

The darkness surrounding them was beginning to lighten, also. While that was usually cause of celebration of the 'Yay, we survived another night' variety, today it unsettled him. He didn't like this new concern about vampires going dusty. It messed with his world-view too much.

"Oh my God," Willow whispered.

"What?" he and Kennedy asked - a little too loudly apparently, because it drew the attention of both Lacroix and Buffy.

TBC  
Kiristeen ke Alaya  
Feedback: the ink with which I write! Please review.


	12. Chapter Eleven

AN: Thank you to everyone who stuck with me during my far too long absence. There is no excuse, so I won't insult you all by trying to offer any, but I do hope my return helps to make up for it. : )

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Chapter Eleven  
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"Oh, my God," Willow whispered, her quiet, incredulous voice carrying quite well.

Lacroix ignored her, in favor of continuing his debate with the arrogant blonde _child_. She had impressed him earlier, and unfortunately, that had led directly to him giving her his contract. Now it was too late to simply kill the girl. Lucien Lacroix did not care much for mortals, nor of mixing in their world. He did, however, view his word as his bond.

Of course, the fact that he wanted to impress upon young Alexander that he was trustworthy, might have played just the tiniest part in that. He did not want the young man as simply a meal. He wanted the incredible loyalty he knew drove the man under his control. To do that, he needed to inspire respect and then trust from the mortal. That was the mistake he'd made - one of many, Lacroix grudgingly admitted to himself - with his lost Nicholas.

"What?" both Kennedy and Alexander demanded, nearly in unison, instantly drawing his and 'Buffy's' - Circe, but he hated that childish name! - attention.

"He has a soul," Willow breathed in response.

Indignation stole through him. "I beg your pardon!" he exclaimed in outrage. "I have no such thing."

Eyes widening to incredible widths, Willow . . . squeaked. Unfortunately, she also nodded. "Yes, you do," she insisted - the cheeky witch.

"He can't Willow," Buffy insisted from beside him. "He bit Xander, and he killed that woman in the park." She turned toward him, with what he suspected was supposed to be a frown, but looked for all the world more like a petulant pout. "And I'm still not happy with you about that."

"I'm a vampire," he replied smoothly, never taking his eyes from the red haired witch. "It's what we do." He did consider taking their memories, but was uncertain as to whether he could accomplish all three - especially in the time he still had available to him. The sky was beginning to grow lighter, the dawn uncomfortably close.

"It looks different than with Angel," Kennedy said.

Willow nodded. "You're right. It does. Buffy, did you ever hear back from Giles?"

"No," Buffy replied. "Why?"

"Because I just think I figured out the difference between our . . . guest and normal vampires."

Lacroix bristled. He was exceptional, yes, and far above the . . . things . . . these people referred to regularly as vampires, but he _was_ normal.

"What's that?" the blonde bitch asked.

Lacroix shook himself. He was allowing this inane conversation to incite him to anger. He could not allow that. It was time to leave.

"I don't think he _ever_ lost his soul."

"I am not a mortal with mortal concerns of souls and death. I am a vampire. I am immortal."

"Yeah, yeah," Buffy replied. "Hush it a minute."

Shock effectively silenced Lacroix - for about ten seconds.

"You mean, it stayed when he got turned?" the blonde continued.

"Brought across," Lacroix automatically corrected, feeling utterly out of his depth for the first time in his very long life. These people were talking utter nonsense.

"Whatever," Buffy replied again. "That could be why he doesn't set off my spidey sense."

Kennedy nodded, bewildering Lacroix.

_Spidey sense?_

"Yes," Kennedy said quietly, her tone hushed. "No loss of soul equals no demon to take over."

"Which means no spidey sense tingling."

"Guys," Alexander interrupted, eyes flicking to the sky. "This is all very interesting, but I think we should get going."

"Agreed," Lacroix said firmly, stepping away from Buffy and toward Alexander.

"Whoa, slow down there, buster."

Slowly turning to face the woman he was slowly coming to loathe, Lacroix' voice quietly filled with venom. "My name, Madam, is Lacroix. I will accept no substitutions, nor 'nicknames'."

"So beside the point," she retorted. "You leave Xander alone."

Beside him, Alexander started to reply, but Lacroix was just a shade quicker.

"You'll have to pardon me if I decline. He and I have some unfinished business to attend to. A deal was made to save your life."

"Buffy, it's okay."

Buffy frowned, shifting restlessly from foot to foot. "Fine," she spat finally, "but you keep your fangs to yourself, _Lacroix_."

Smirking, Lacroix readily agreed to the condition he was already planning on abiding by. "Unless he grants his freely given consent, I can assure you that he will remain in posession of all his blood."

"What about that memory messer-upper thingy?" Willow demanded, hands firmly on her hips.

_These children and their mangling of the english language._

He turned to face the witch, and took a step back despite himself. Her eyes were entirely black. Somehow, he didn't think that was a good sign. "Hence the phrase, freely given, young Willow. If I were to coerce consent, it would not be freely given, now would it?"

_Idiots!_ Why in the fires of Memnoch's hell he was standing around _talking_ when he should simply snatch Alexander and fly off, was utterly beyond him. He would have to ponder the matter later. For now, he was done talking. He closed in on the mortal and asked. "Are you ready?"

Alexander stiffened, his heart-rate skyrocketing, but he nodded. "I'll see you guys tomorrow."

His friends didn't have time to respond. Lacroix wrapped an arm firmly around Alexander's waist and leapt into the last of the night sky. He chuckled lowly as Alexander let out a startled scream, that cut off with gratifying speed.

"Where?" Lacroix asked, placing his mouth directly next to Alexander's ear.

Alexander shuddered and after a short hesitation - during which, Lacroix assumed, the mortal forced himself to open his eyes - he shakily indicated a direction.

After several false starts, due directly to miscommunication, they arrived at "Willy's Bar". Lacroix set down in the alley beside it, releasing the mortal from his hold. He shuddered, however, as he surveyed his surroundings. He did not hold out high hopes for this place if its neighborhood was any indicator.

Indicating to Alexander that he should lead the way, Lacroix followed behind, eyes open and sense alert. There was something about this place that grated on his nerves, and stepping inside the dump was an experience equal to that of arriving here in the first place. His nose flared and his ears rang. It stank and was noisesome beyond belief. Dark, and obviously illkept, the place was certainly not set to attract a very high class of patronage. All attention turned toward them as Alexander entered. The mortal pretended to ignore it, and headed straight to the bar.

Lacroix, however, glared at anyone who made a move toward the mortal, more than satisfied when none dared to challenge his obvious claim. He didn't like some of the looks they were getting by creatures he would be hard put to describe - and in some cases wouldn't want to. Though, apparently, he was an unknown enough quantity that none of those present were willing to push. That was quite satisfactory to him. He wanted little to nothing to do with these strange . . . creatures. They were neither mortals nor vampires, consequently they held little of interest to him at the moment beyond the physical dangers they might represent.

If he were forced to stay in this forsaken hell-hole permanently, that might change; for now, however, he saw absolutely no reason to concern himself.

"Hey Willy, how's it hangin?"

Lacroix snorted at the impertinant question, but apparently the bartender took no offense. He did wonder about a _human_ tending bar in a place frequented by vampires and 'demons', though. It seemed . . . odd to him.

"Things are going good, Kid," Willy replied readily enough; though, casting a wary glance Lacroix' direction. "What are _you_ up to?" Another wary look. "Got yourself into any trouble recently?"

Lacroix smirked. _Quite a lot, actually,_ he thought, intentionally letting Alexander handle the transaction. He wanted nothing to do with the bartender _or_ the clientele here.

Alexander snorted. "You know me."

"Yeah, Kid, I do. That's why I worry."

"Lacroix here got me out of a real bad fix, actually, which is why we're here. We need you to set him up with a 48 hour supply of blood."

"I'm guessing human, by the look of things," Willy replied with a third glance toward him - this one rather appallingly assessive. "He certainly doesn't have the look of Angel about him."

_Angel! Oh, yes, the vampire Alexander mentioned. Strange name for a vampire._

Alexander nodded. "Right on both counts, Willy, and. . . ." He leaned forward, lowering his voice to a supposedly confidential whisper. "I'd be keeping my mouth shut about him if I were you. Even Angelus is afraid of him."

Willy's eyes widened dramatically and the mortal shot him a very startled look which quickly darted back to Alexander. "You mean, Angel, right?"

"No, well, yes, him too, but I _meant_ Angelus."

A suddenly _very_ nervous bartender quickly collected several bottles. "This stuff doesn't come cheap, Kid. How are you planning on paying for it?"

Lacroix watched as Alexander blanched at the total shown him. "There goes my summer vacation," he muttered as he wrote out a check.

As they exited the establishment, Lacroix smirked as he heard Willy speak into the telephone. "Summers? I got a question for you."

Shortly thereafter they were in the alley once again, and Xander rounded on him. "You owe me, Lacroix. That was an entire year's worth of savings I just spent in there."

Gliding forward, Lacroix moved behind Alexander, stilling the mortal's movements when he tried to turn. He slipped an arm around Alexander's waist, like earlier. Making sure to support the blood supply they'd just purchased, he leaned close and whispered. "I'll make sure you're . . . adequately compensated once our original agreement has been fulfilled."

Alexander 'eeped' delightfully, and Lacroix was glad he'd had the foresight to secure the blood as the mortal would have dropped it in his surprise. Before the mortal could regain his composure, Lacroix lifted them back into flight. To his complete surprise, Lacroix found he was enjoying the flight, mortal warmth spreading along his body. For the first time ever, Lacroix began toying with the idea of maintaining contact with this mortal _as_ a mortal, and it was then that he truly began to get an inkling of Nicholas' endless fascination with them.

TBC  
Kiristeen ke Alaya  
Feedback: is the ink with which I write!


	13. Chapter Twelve

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Part Twelve  
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Choosing to remain silent as he followed Alexander through the front door of his building and up to his apartment, Lacroix was gratified to note that, while the young man did not live in the lap of luxury, his abode was satisfactory, the place surprisingly clean. Alexander turned just after entering, opening his mouth to speak, but no words emerged. The boy simply stared at him oddly as he glided into the home.

Eyes narrowing in suspicion as the strange, for Alexander, silence continued. "Did your mother never point out that it is quite rude to stare?" he asked, his voice deceptively mild.

Alexander jumped, blinking in surprise. "How did you do that?"

"Do what?" Lacroix asked in honest confusion. "Speak? I assure you," he continued with a smirk, "I've been doing it for centuries; quite well, I might add."

"Oh, ha, ha," Alexander retorted, his eyes rolling, "very funny. I _meant_ how did you walk into my apartment without an invite?"

Arching an eyebrow in surprise, Lacroix peripherally wondered if he had just encountered an odd custom that differed from his own world. "My apologies, Alexander, if I have inadvertantly crossed some manner of etiquette that differs from my own world. I presumed an 'invite' by the very fact that you brought me here. I did not realize that manners required me to wait."

"Huh?"

Lacroix chuckled. "Very articulate."

Alexander visibly shook himself. "No, you didn't- It isn't that. Vampires need a verbal invite before they can cross the threshhold of someone's home," he protested, turning away abruptly and heading for the kitchen.

"Fascinating," Lacroix purred, seeing an excellent opportunity to drive a point home. "Elegant proof that I am as different from those animals you generally refer to as vampires as I claim to be." Taking one of the stools at the breakfast bar separating the kitchen from the living area, he watched as Alexander emptied the paper bag, setting one of the bottles on the counter, two in the fridge and storing the rest in the freezer.

He winced, that was going to be stale.

"Hmm, good point."

Lacroix nodded graciously. "Of course." If he ended up staying here longer than was his current desire, he was going to have to revolutionise the blood storage industry. _Frozen blood!_ He shuddered.

Alexander rolled his eyes, huffing a bit. "Look, I've already realized you're different," he admitted. "I simply haven't decided how different. Can we drop the subject for now?"

"Very well, Alexander," Lacroix agreed, coming to realize that pushing Alexander would have the same result as his pushing of Nicholas. "I will 'drop' the subject as you request, on one condition."

His mortal was instantly wary. He liked that. It showed good survival potential.

"What condition?"

"Nothing catastrophic, I assure you," he replied easily. "If you simply must judge, I ask only that you look beyond your preconceptions and use my behavior as your guide. Do not allow prejudice to color what you learn."

"Seems fair enough, " Alexander replied, still wary, as though waiting for the catch on the trap to spring.

Lacroix nodded. He certainly thought so. It was far 'fairer' than he usually was with the mortal set, and even most of the immortal one, if he was being particularly truthful. 'Dropping' the subject as requested, Lacroix turned to another concern of his. "What do you know about crossing dimensions?"

Alexander blinked several times before he seemed to focus on what was asked of him. "Just that most dimensions are best for the natives of that dimension, and do not _tend_ to be very friendly to visitors," he said, easily slicing open one of the remaining bags and pouring it into a large coffee mug.

"In other words," Lacroix replied evenly, watching "the grass is not always greener."

Alexander chuckled. "Yes, exactly. Most of the dimensions I've either seen into or heard of, aren't places I'd like to vacation, if you get my drift. They're pretty much my idea of hell."

"Ah, yes, Dante's hell."

"Who? I thought it was the devil's hell."

Lacroix laughed, the sound rich and throaty. "We must get you more widely read, young Alexander. Dante was an author who wrote of the Christian's version of hell, all fire and brimstone, I'm given to understand."

Alexander nodded. "Yeah, so I'm told. I've not seen any proof of that, though I have seen things like time dilation and eternal torture. Just no fire." Alexander paused after placing the mug inside a microwave - Nicholas had one of those newfangled contraptions - looking particularly thoughtful. "Not sure about the brimstone, though," he admitted, shutting the door, and entering codes. One last button pushed and the thing flared into operation. "I'd have to ask deadboy about that, but, I don't think I will. I imagine it's a still a sore subject with him.

Not quite sure what to make of that, Lacroix leaned forward. "Explain, if you please."

Alexander gaped at him silently for several seconds, obviously not having expected the request. It didn't really take him long to begin answering, however, the babble that came along with said explanation was difficult to follow, but not impossible. What emerged was a tale to make any immortal cringe - himself included. He could no more imagine spending 400 years in perpetual torture, only to one day find himself crashing to the ground in the 'normal' world again. He suspected that not many would survive such an experience sane.

Automatically picking up the mug after Alexander set it on the counter in front of him, Lacroix found himself needing to raise his estimation of this 'Angel' several levels. If he could survive that with any kind of socialization left within him, he actually had potential - strange kind of vampire or not. "So, Alexander," Lacroix purred, causing the mortal several feet away to twitch, "tell me how he came by the name 'deadboy'. It can not have been self chosen."

Alexander laughed. "Not hardly. He hates it, or says he does. Personally, I think he used to hate it, back when I meant it as badly as it sounds. Now, though, I think he'd wonder what was wrong with me if I stopped using it. It's tradition now."

Taking a tentative sip, Lacroix was startled to note that the blood was exactly body temperature. He snapped his head up to watch Alexander measuringly. He was smiling, broadly.

"You've done this quite a bit," Lacriox commented lightly, taking another sip. At least, before it was frozen it was palatable. A French visitor to this country, if the images he saw were anything to go by; though, the connection was far weaker this way than taking it directly.

"Buffy might be another person to ask," Alexander said suddenly. "She took a nose dive into our very own hellmouth, here once. I didn't see that happen; I was . . . elsewhere at the time."

"Where?" Lacroix asked, genuinely curious at both the hesitation and the tone Alexander had used; for now, ignoring the side path of that Buffy person.

He shrugged. "Running down zombies, saving the life of a slayer, that kind of thing."

Lacroix smirked. There was a very long story there, he was sure, and set about to finding it out. In fact, over the course of the morning, Lacroix subtlely, and sometimes not so subtlely, drew Alexander out, getting the young mortal to talk about himself and his 'adventures' with his friends. As each story unfolded, adding depth to the silent images he'd seen when he'd partaken of the young man, however, he became more and more amazed at the simple fact of this mortal's survival. He and his friends had faced as many dangers as, possibly more than, he had these last 600 years. It was almost mind boggling.

About the time Alexander's yawns became frequent and his eyelids began to droop, Lacroix brought up the subject he knew his host as quite wary of. "You are tired, Alexander, as am I," he said, watching as the mortal's head popped up and his eyes widened slightly. "Do you have a place where I may sleep safely?" He almost smirked as the mortal relaxed a fraction, a subtle movement that would have gone unnoticed by most.

"Yeah," he nodded, rising. "It isn't big, but it fits a bed, and there are no windows." He strode across the room, and flung open a door to what Lacroix had to agree was a 'not big' room. A glorified closet would be closer to the truth, but at the moment, it was better than burying himself. He would see to making more appropriate arrangements tomorrow. He did note that the door opened in such a way that the room was removed from any direct sunlight that could come from the giant picture windows, which was a plus. What really surprised him, were the heavy sun obliterating drapes that hung over those windows. If he wasn't already well aware of Alexander's views on vampires, he might have suspected he had them over as regular guests.

x-x-x

Xander dropped onto the bed, exhausted beyond belief. He sat there, staring numbly at the floor. The last several days had pretty much been the longest he had _ever_ lived through. And they didn't take into account the last several hours as he had waited for the 'other shoe to drop', for Lacroix to tell him what he wanted. If all the . . . hints of the last few hours were anything to go by, he suspected he knew what the 'price' was going to be. His nerves had been stretched tight from the moment they had reached his apartment. Unfortunately, he simply didn't know Lacroix well enough to judge. He shuddered, his mind's eye going places he really didn't want it to go. Equally unfortunately, he saw no way to get out of it without breaking his word to the odd vampire - something he had never intentionally done.

He supposed he should try to get used to the idea, something he'd never really thought about before. Anya had been very . . . experimental, something that had thrown him for a loop many times, but did have benefits. He was certainly far more aware of the possibilities than he had been before they'd dated. Shy was not a word one could use to describe Anya at any time. Sexually shy was about as opposite as you could get to the ex-demon. He snorted quietly. He had erotic zones in places he had _never_ even remotely considered erotic before Anya, or B.A. as he was beginning to think of it. So, he knew - theoretically, at least - that what Lacroix had hinted that he might request of Xander could be . . . pleasurable. Xander swallowed convulsively. He just wasn't sure he could go through with it. Perhaps he could encourage the vampire's mind to turn elsewhere for compensation for helping rescue Buffy, Willow, and Kennedy.

He snorted again, this time shaking his head. Not likely, not if that was truly where the vampire wanted to go. What the hell was he supposed to do? This wasn't something he could talk to the girls about, and heaven forbid - even if the watcher were available - would he even consider speaking to Giles about this, or anything remotely related to it. That would be as bad as talking to either of his parents - for different reasons, but still.

Firmly determined to shut off his thoughts, Xander toed off his boots and fell into bed - fully clothed. No sooner had his head hit the pillow, however, than his own scent hit him forcefully.

"Gah!"

He was out of bed seconds later, striding toward his dresser for something clean to wear. He hesitated at the door, however, wary of stepping outside his room. Who knew what Lacroix would do given the chance. Part of him wanted to disregard his own stench and put off facing the vampire until tomorrow night. He wavered for only a few seconds, though, realizing he wouldn't be able to sleep if he didn't get himself cleaned up.

"Get a grip, Harris," he scolded himself quietly, then wrenched open his bedroom door and strode out of his sanctuary. He sighed in instant relief when Lacroix was nowhere to be seen. Apparently, he'd already gone to bed himself. Thankful, Xander made a beeline for the bathroom, only to stop short a few inches from the door. The shower was running.

_Of course!_ Xander thought sourly. While he couldn't exactly blame Lacroix for wanting to get clean, he still resented the fact that he couldn't get into his own shower when he wanted to. He was no longer used to sharing. Spike had been his last roommate, and their schedules had varied enough that they had never had to fight over the shower - thank goodness! But that vampire had been gone for months now.

Sighing, resigning himself to the wait, as well as at least one more run in with the vampire before he could sleep, Xander dropped his clean clothes on the couch and headed for the kitchen. If he was going to remain up any longer, he was going to get some caffeine. Too bad the only caffeine he had was coffee. He shrugged. Add enough sugar and it served its purpose. Once the coffee was brewing, Xander re-entered his bedroom, and it suddenly dawning on him that Lacroix would probably appreciate something to wear that hadn't seen at least a week's wear - not to mention wasn't stained with demon gore and stench. The two of them weren't _that_ different in size, but he knew that nothing he had would fit the vampire as well as what he was already wearing - well, had been wearing. Xander assumed he wasn't _still_ wearing it, considering the vampire was currently usurping the shower.

Shaking off his mental babble, Xander quickly chose a pair of sweats and a loose t-shirt before striding out of his room and to the bathroom door. He knocked before he could lose his nerve. It didn't take long before he was answered.

"Yes?"

Xander cracked the door open in response. "I've brought you something clean to wear," he said, setting the clothes on the counter and ducking back outside without giving the vampire time to respond.

Xander had just finished his first cup of coffee when he heard the shower shut off. _Thank you!_ Xander thought emphatically. He was no longer so sure he wouldn't be able to sleep without a shower, not if he'd had to wait too much longer. Unfortunately, if that happened, he was going to have to wash his bedding next. Not long after the shower shut off, Lacroix exited the bathroom, passing Xander with no more than a simple nod of greeting, not speaking until Xander was shutting the door behind him.

"Good sleep, Alexander," he said, startling Xander a little, "and, thank you."

He whipped his head around, only to find the vampire was already closing the door to his tiny, temporary room. Shaking his head, Xander finished closing the door, and leaned back against it. He _had_ to stop letting his nerves get the better of him, or he wasn't going to have to worry about the hellmouth, demons, or Lacroix doing him in. He was going to give himself a heart attack!

TBC  
Kiristeen ke Alaya  
Feedback: Most definitely desired. It's food to the muses.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

AN: The dialogue in the flash back scene in this chapter comes directly from the Forever Knight episode 'Ashes to Ashes' and is not mine, only the descriptions are made with my own wording.

Bless everyone who reviewed. You're the ones that keep me moving forward.

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Chapter Thirteen  
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_Lacroix nearly growled in frustration as Alexander refused the kill, refused even to drink. _Damn it to Memnock's hell and back again!_ he swore silently. Not even Nicholas had been this stubborn in the beginning, the thirst had seen to that, and **he** had been a knight of the Crusades! In the first flush of being brought across, _no one_ should be able to control themselves that well!_

"If **Angel** can survive on animal blood, so can I!" Alexander shouted, angry beyond reason. The sire/childe bond between them fairly vibrated with its intensity. "I won't become the thing I hate!

"It's what you are!" Lacroix snarled, angry at having to do this again_. It was a centuries old argument that simply had a new face. "We are predators. They are the prey."_

Alexander shook his head vehemently, clearly denying Lacroix' words.

"To deny what you are leads to madness!" he snapped back. "We are made for the hunt."

"So I will hunt demons," Alexander retorted, "and be glad of it. I can feed off animals. I will not hurt humans!"

No!_ Lacroix thought in anguish. _No childe of mine will be a bottom feeding, gutter child!__

"The first feeding is too important for that, Alexander. We can argue about this later. You **must** drink human first!" he ordered.

Alexander remained stubborn, shaking his head adamantly.

Pushed beyond his last threads of control, Lacroix strode forward. Allowing his own fangs to descend, he grabbed the young man he had procured for Alexander and ripped his throat open. It was messy this way, but not even his prideful boy would be able to resist the lure of freshly spilled blood if he was already tasting it. Forcing down the voice that warned him he was doing the exact wrong thing, he grabbed his new childe and forced his head down until his mouth touched the freely flowing blood.

He waited tensely for several, eternal minutes, as Alexander continued to struggle against him. What willpower!_ He sighed an explosive breath of relief as suddenly Alexander went limp and began drinking._

Lacroix blinked in momentary surprise as the scenery suddenly changed around him, the oddness of it slipping away almost the moment it had registered.

It was only seconds before dawn and he was outside Alexander's apartment building. He frowned. Why was he out here? He should be inside already. It really wasn't like him to cut it this close, centuries of experience having taught him his lessons well. Turning to head to the safety of Alexander's surprisingly vampire friendly apartment, he froze.

Alexander was out here! Even as he started toward his wayward childe, the sun began rising over the horizon, forcing his retreat to the shelter of entry way. "Alexander!" he shouted while moving. "The sun rises. Get to safety."

It was only as he reached safety himself that he turned and realized that Alexander had not moved. He gasped, horror choking him, closing his throat and binding his chest in a painful vise.

"No!" he breathed hoarsely, even as the sun kissed Alexander. Not even he, as old as he was, would be able to reach him and get them both back to safety before his childe was ash. The newly brought across had no protections against the sun, not even those first few moments of the dawn's weak rays. Nearly instantly, Alexander began to smoke, his words drifting across the gulf separating them.

"I can not live with what you've made me become," Alexander whispered, sending Lacroix to his knees in anguish.

Even as Lacroix' knees hit the stone porch floor, Alexander went up into a tower of flames screaming his pain, both physical and mental.

Lacroix sat bolt upright in his borrowed bed, chest and throat seizing. His heart beat once, hard against his ribs even as he realized the scream that echoed in his mind, was also resounding in his ears. He leapt out of bed, his movements slowing only the minute portion of a second that it took to register that it was just now sunset. He wrenched open the door, barely noticing that he left it hanging crookedly from its now twisted hinges.

Alexander's bedroom door received the same treatment as Lacroix raced to the source of the scream. Just as he crossed the threshold, the mortal came upright just as quickly as Lacroix, himself, had, his panicked heart beat frantically loud in the enclosed room.

Head snapping up, his eyes unnaturally wide, Alexander scrambled off the bed and back against the wall. "Stay away from me!" he snapped, sounding as much fearful as angry.

That froze Lacroix in place. "It was a nightmare, Alexander," Lacroix said soothingly. "It wasn't real."

Alexander snorted. "Real enough," he retorted.

Lacroix frowned, now wondering just how accurately his subconscious had predicted Alexander's reaction to being brought across. Even the thought of his own nightmare becoming reality was enough to clench the vampire's chest. He would have to find a way to avoid that. His mental voice snorted, chastising him. _And you're so sure you can convince him in the first place?_

No, actually, he was not sure. He just knew that forcing this young man - in any way - would be the worst mistake he could make. His mind whirling in a thousand directions at once, Lacroix tried to determine where, exactly, he needed to go from here. Unfortunately, he suspected that if really wanted to gain this man-child's incredible loyality, he was going to have to move into completely uncharted territory. Then it dawned on him, precisely, what he was going to have to do. The issue, after all, was trust. He was going to have to _earn_ this mortal's trust; something he'd never before considered doing.

After that, it took him only seconds to figure out how to proceed. "Perhaps we could," he suggested, a small smirk forming, "leave the scene of the crime, so to speak. That might ease your stress."

Alexander let out a bark of unsteady laughter; though, Lacroix could hear very little humor in the sound. The young man nodded, however, and stepped away from the wall. He paused a second later, clearly hesitant to pass close enough to Lacroix to get through the door.

Ignoring his own reaction to the overt distrust, Lacroix turned and strode from Alexander's room, heading directly to his. He grabbed up the _t-shirt_ Alexander had loaned him. It wasn't up to his usual standards, but it - along with the odd trousers - was better than nudity. His next stop was the kitchen. He was hungry and even reheated blood, stale as it would be, would help calm that and him. He suspected he would need every ounce of patience he was capable of - maybe more - in order to win this paranoid young man's trust.

He opened the refrigerator, deep in thought; though that didn't prevent him from hearing Alexander enter the room as well. He didn't outwardly react, however, returning to his previous thoughts. The subject of the nightmare could have been any number of things, considering what the mortal had been through in his short life, but Lacroix suspected it was likely to be one of only two - perhaps both. Considering how much on the mortal's mind both would be at this point.

The question remaining, he thought to himself as he searched for an appropriate mug-

"Door above and to the right of the sink," Alexander said, seemingly out of the blue.

Lacroix nodded, and opening that cupboard, discovered exactly what he'd been looking for, several ceramic mugs. "Thank you," he said, pulling one out. Carefully pouring blood into it, Lacroix carefully watched Alexander operating the mircrwave out of the corner of his eye. He'd never paid much attention to such things before now, never having needed to. He stepped over to it after Alexander retrieved his now hot coffee and retreated to the table.

"A minute sixteen," he said as he sat.

Gratefully, Lacroix nodded, and set the timer for his own beverage. It wasn't difficult. He may have never bothered with one of these contraptions before, but he was no stranger to electronics in general. As it heated, he thought, then quietly began his 'assault'. "Do you get nightmares often, Alexander?" he asked.

"Some," he replied, shrugging.

The apparent nonchalance of his answer did not fool Lacroix, but before he could formulate a proper response, the young man continued.

"Just promise me something," he said.

He turned, surprised that Alexander had enough trust to _believe_ a promise from him. "What's that," he asked, not willing to promise anything blind.

"Never turn me," he said firmly.

_Ah, so that was what the dream centered around,_ Lacroix thought, distrubed by the similar themes of their nightmares. Wondering if Alexander realized how much that request had given away, he did not respond immediately. He waited until the timer went off. After withdrawing his, now warm blood, he crossed to the table where the young man now sat.

"Never is a long time, Alexander," he said carefully, seating himself across from his companion, who immediately opened his mouth and - judging from his expression - was going to protest. Lacroix held up a stalling hand, hoping to ward off the seemingly automatic response. "But I will promise this," he offered firmly, "I will not attempt to bring you across without your express permission."

Alexander frowned at that. "You'll never get it," he retorted firmly, stoutly assured it would never happen.

Lacroix nodded, acknowledging the words, if not his agreement. As he'd said, never was a very long time. "It wouldn't work without it, anyway," he continued, seeing an opportunity.

Alexander blinked at him, looking quite confused. "Huh?"

Ignoring the inelegance of the response, Lacroix almost grinned. He'd hoped his statement would garner such a questioning response. "Without the person being brought across wanting it, at least on some level, the conversion process won't take."

"It's not automatic?" Alexander exclaimed.

"No," Lacroix informed him, "it's not."

"I thought it was."

"It may be," Lacroix agreed, "with those you have always known as vampires."

Alexander's frown deepened. "Listen," he retorted, anger coloring his tone now, "they _are_ vampires. Just because they're not exactly like you, doesn't make them not vampires. That'd be like saying someone Chinese and someone African aren't both human simply because they aren't exactly the same. It's stupid."

Lacroix was surprised by the outburst - as well as irritated at the put down - but couldn't help being pleased that the mortal, at least, acknowledged there _was_ a difference. It was progress . . . of a sort. "Very well," he admitted. "But that aside, I know very little about how your vampires _turn_ someone. All I know is how my kind is brought across."

"How could it not be automatic?"

Lacroix really had to fight the smile this time. This was finally heading exactly where he wanted it to go; to a subject he'd thought he would never talk about with anyone. The past, after all, was the past and should be left there. He began slowly, telling Xander of the night he'd been brought across.

Alexander was wide eyed, as he described the chaos of that night, of the noise, the panic of the people, of the stifling heat, and of his own surety that he was going to die. He went on to describe his anger at how his world, and everything he had fought to build, was being destroyed, how he had shouted at the gods for their betrayal of him.

The memory played out in his mind as he continued.

Diva stood next to him, calm, as everyone around them was panicking.

Even Flavius, his second in command, seemed panicked as he ran toward him. "General!" he shouted. "Come quickly! The mountain; Vesuvius is on fire!"

"Do you want to die or live?" Divia said quietly, distracting him. "You only have moments to decide."

His eyes scanning the disaster around him, everything tumbling to the ground, breaking, falling apart; his anger rose inside him until it was an incandescent rage. "The gods can not destroy me! They do not have the power! Come on! Come on!" he taunted mockingly. "Let me see an enemy more powerful than you!"

"Let go your mortal bonds, General," Divia purred beside him, once again drawing part of his attention away from the destruction of his home, of all he had built. "We must survive at any cost. Life cheats death. It will always find a way. Live or die?" she demanded as he fell to his knees, embracing a broken bust depicting his own greatness. "What is your decision?"

Sighing, weary to the core, he turned his head slightly. "To live, Divia," he replied, stating what should have been obvious, "to live."

Alexander sucked in a shocked breath, pulling him from the painful memory.

"It was frightening at first," he freely admitted, shaking off the melancholy that thinking on Divia always brought. "I had no idea what was happening, beyond the fact that Divia had offered a way to survive Vesuvius' eruption. When I felt myself dying, I thought she had betrayed me, but even so, thought it would be a better death than burning under the fires of a volcano. Obviously, I was wrong, and she hadn't betrayed me."

Alexander laughed a little at that. "Obviously," he agreed drily.

Lacroix allowed himself a smirk at that. "I believe what happened next would be refered to, these days, as a 'near death experience'. I saw the proverbial white light and was given a choice. I could pass into it, or I could return."

Alexander was wide eyed again, listening raptly.

"As I had already told Divia, I chose to live."

"So, Willow was right," Alexander breathed.

Lacroix frowned. "I do not see how the two subjects are related." He was rather disgruntled to have this subject brought up again. What need had he to concern himself with such mortal worries?

Alexander shrugged again, and once again, Lacroix was not fooled. "What else would have come back, but your soul?" he asked.

"I did," Lacroix answered, as if it was obvious.

Laughing, Alexander shook his head. "Obviously," he said, draining the last bit of his coffee, "but what part of you?"

"I see no sense in this conversation," Lacroix replied, rising and rinsing out his mug.

Behind him Alexander chuckled and as Lacroix strode out of the kitchen, trying to distance himself from the disturbing turn their talk had taken, he found Alexander smirking triumphantly. It was as if he thought Lacroix' departure was some sort of retreat.

_And isn't it just that?_ he asked himself.

He immediately turned it back around onto the mortal. How dare the impudent _child_ think he might know more about Lacroix than he knew about himself. He'd been a vampire for nigh on 2,000 years. He would certainly know whether or not he had a soul!

TBC  
Kiristeen ke Alaya  
Feedback: Yes, please.


	15. Chapter Fourteen

Disclaimer: Neither 'Forever Knight' nor Buffy the Vampire Slayer belong to me. No copyright infringement is intended and I will earn no money from this story, ever.

My profound apologies for the length of time since my last update!

This chapter is dedicated to Amelora, whose recent review kickstarted me to get this chapter posted for you all. Thanks Amelora!

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Chapter Fourteen  
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His 48 hours were almost up, but he had absolutely no intention of leaving town any time soon. Which meant, of course, that he was going to have to 'renegotiate' with that girl. Though, he seriously doubted she could actually do him permanent harm, he knew without a doubt, if he didn't move carefully, she could - and would - make his life here difficult. If nothing else she could very easily breed even more distrust in Alexander than was already present, something he was having difficulty combating as it was; though, something subtle had changed since the conversation they shared the morning after their nightmares.

He frowned thoughtfully. He still hadn't discovered the key to gaining the mortal's trust. He supposed it would probably help his case if he told the man that unwilling partners had palled long before he'd been a century old. Partners who willingly danced were far more enticing and had been for a very long time. Of course, watching Alexander wonder was also quite enticing, and if nothing else, it certainly kept the mortal's thoughts turned toward him and that was the first step. The way he had it figured; the longer he took to call in the debt the man-child owed him, the more chance he had of the human trusting him.

He rose abruptly, shaking his mind free of its thoughts as he felt the sun set. He had a . . . girl to see and now was as good a time as any, better, in fact, than to wait until she came looking to make sure he was leaving. It showed - he sneered - _good faith_ on his part. This time, however, the 'deal' was not going to include no hunting. If he had to, he would stick to the criminal element for now; though, that would be bland fare after awhile. Criminals tended to have limited . . . scope. He could also agree to not killing - he wasn't an uncontrolled fledge, after all. The fact that he didn't have to worry overly much about resisters in this very strange dimension didn't hurt, either.

He made it just outside the apartment when it occurred to him that Alexander might think he had simply left town - as agreed. The mortal would, of course, be set straight easily, but, Lacroix had only gone a few more steps when it occurred to him that it would place him squarely in the same category as the boy's so-called friends, and would do absolutely nothing toward building the desired trust.

He paused as he considered what he could do to change that and found himself considering something he would never have thought of doing before. He turned abruptly and strode back into Alexander's apartment. He quickly searched out pen and paper and left the boy a note to say he would be back later. Shaking his head at how low he'd sunk, Lacroix then strode back out of the apartment and to the street. He couldn't believe he wasn't simply taking the boy. Surely Nicholas was an . . . oddity. The thirst would drive Alexander after the change just as it had vampires for millenia. Unfortunately, he simply couldn't shake the uneasiness that lingered from his nightmare vision of the boy immolating himself under the rays of the morning sun. He wasn't willing to take the chance that loyal Alexander would take things far worse than Nicholas ever had.

x-x-x

Xander wearily made his way up the stairs of his apartment building. It had been a long, hectic day and he was heartily glad that it was not only over, but that it was Friday. Barring some sort of emergency that would require the presence of the foreman, he was off duty until Monday morning. Of course, he now had to deal with his . . . guest. This evening was the last one of Lacroix' cease-fire with Buffy and a very large part of Xander wanted to disappear until the vampire left town. He slumped even as the thought crossed his mind. He wouldn't disappear and he well knew it. The last couple of days had been beyond surreal and he had got to know the ancient vampire, had even enjoyed listening to his stories of rather historical proportion - certainly more than he had enjoyed _any_ history class he'd ever sat through. The man - vampire - had _known_ Genghis Kahn, for heaven's sake! He knew historical leaders like Nero and Charlemagne - people even _Xander_ remembered from history class - the class he'd practically slept through. Lacroix had even met Joan of Arc!

Of course, it didn't hurt that he'd been feeling a lot more comfortable around the vampire since their discussion the morning after his rather horrifying nightmare. The fact that the vampire actually had a soul, helped that feeling along; though, he well knew that alone was not enough to ensure that someone was not evil.

That story about having met and nearly turned Hitler before his rise to power, though. Xander shuddered at the thought, vivid ideas of what might have followed if the vampire _had_ done so, unsettling him completely.

He got the distinct impression, however, that Lacroix was feeling lost and alone-

_Well, duh, Harris!_ Xander thought as he stepped inside his apartment. _How would **you** be feeling in his position?_ Again Xander shuddered. He simply could not imagine being thrown into a reality so very different from his own, alone and cut off from everyone and everything he'd ever known. The closest he'd come had been the summer after graduation when his car had broke down in the middle of his big 'self-discovery' trip round the country. At least, he'd still had valid ID and a way to legally make money!

Xander hadn't even made it out of the state, but he'd certainly 'discovered' several things about himself that summer - the biggest of which being that he simply couldn't just walk away. He couldn't then, and he couldn't now. He couldn't just walk out on the vampire - much as that thought boggled his mind. He owed the vampire a debt and that was something he wasn't about to welch on. He wasn't, however, above letting the _vampire_ let it slide. And he _certainly_ wasn't going to 'push' the issue.

The thing about that was, he wasn't entirely certain what the vampire's game was. He had a hold over Xander that Xander had expected the vampire to call him on sooner rather than later, but hadn't done so yet. He frowned as he glanced around his seemingly empty apartment, wondering if the vampire really had left without calling him on his 'debt'. _No,_ he thought firmly a second later. That didn't sound right. He really didn't think that was the case at all. The vampire wasn't 'gone', he just didn't seem to be there.

It didn't take long to find the rather surprising note. He knew neither Spike nor Angel would have left one for him, would not have even thought of doing so.

_He keeps telling you he's different._

Xander frowned at the thought, wondering why _that_ had come up. So, he was different than the vampires he was used to. He was _still_ a vampire. To vampires, humans were prey, food, nothing more.

That idea didn't seem to fit right, either, and Xander's frown deepened. He didn't like being confused about vampires. He _really_ wanted to go back to the time when he could easily relegate all vampires to the 'evil, must be destroyed' category he'd started with. Having Spike and Angel in separate categories was bad enough. Needing a third category - one he still wasn't quite sure how to describe - was making him beyond jittery.

He snorted as he set to cleaning himself up enough to make dinner. _Be real, Harris!_ he sternly ordered himself. _It isn't his 'uniqueness' that's making you jittery at all!_

x-x-x

The door in front of Lacroix opened and a young, dark haired girl, not yet fully grown, greeted him.

"Hello?" she said, smiling.

He stood stalk still, shock stealing through him. "Fleur," he breathed without consciously realizing he'd said it out loud. The child standing in front of him bore an absolutely uncanny resemblance to his long dead love; though, she was far younger.

An odd expression stole across her face and she shook her head. "No," she replied hesitantly, "it's Dawn, actually; Dawn Summers, and you are?"

Lacroix blinked and shook his head in return. "My apologies, m'lady. My name is Lucian Lacroix," he purred, smiling, "and I'm looking for Buffy."

A bright grin transformed the young girl's face and she stepped back from the door, holding it wide open.

He hoped that meant he was invited to come in; though, where he was from both the so called invitation and his assumption of acceptance would have been considered the height of rudeness. Of course, given Xander's reaction, and explanation, after Lacroix' entrance into the man's home, he thought he understood. In this time and place, mortals didn't 'invite' strangers into their homes. He supposed it was a quite reasonable precaution, all things considered.

Had he been the prey, he certainly wouldn't have been inviting the predator inside the 'castle walls', so to speak.

x-x-x

Lacroix strode toward his temporary abode, fury radiating from him in nearly palpable waves. That girl was simply . . . _infuriating_! If he hadn't been so intent on gaining young Alexander's trust he would simply have killed her and been done with it. He refused to fully acknowledge the niggling sense that the delightful child, Dawn, might have had something to do with his restraint as well.

And just _how_ could those two be sisters? he wondered. The two were so different as to nearly be separate _species_! The young girl's delight and infectious curiosity reminded him as much of Fleur as the girl's appearance did. A tiny part of him wondered if all the cracks about reincarnation really were true, that this tiny girl had Fleur's bright, pure soul. He snorted, scoffing at his own imaginative fancy. It was coincidence, nothing more.

He sighed. At least he'd worked out a second temporary truce with the blasted woman - not that he was completely happy with it. Being able to restrain himself wasn't the problem. He did so with regularity, usually only killing in extremis. The problem was being told, _ordered_, to do so. As he'd suspected, the woman had only 'relented' so far. He'd received his desire to hunt - so long as he stuck to the criminal element - but he 'couldn't' kill. Of course, it wasn't _her_ that was stopping him from doing so anyway. It was Alexander. If he wanted to gain the mortal's trust as planned, he had to demonstrate that he kept his word - which he did - when he could be bothered to give it. He just didn't usually care enough to give it.

What galled him no end was that the arrogant young woman seemed so certain he was wary of her, that he _cared_ what she thought. _As if!_ He'd had to bite his tongue - metaphorically - to keep from telling her off. It . . . chafed to continue to allow her to think that way. But, if by doing so, it made her trust him just that little bit and kept her away from him while he . . . coaxed Alexander, so be it; he could put up with it for now.

He knew the creature was there a full minute before it attack. Hand lashing out as it leapt at him, he grasped it by the neck, instantly halting its forward progress and let it hang there nearly a foot off the ground. He watched it as it goggled at him, scratching at his arms and kicking out uselessly. So this was what these demonic vampire's looked like up close. Ugly things, really. On a sudden whim, he jerked the creature forward, spinning it around until he had its back trapped against his chest, then jerked its head to the side. He wanted to learn about it, to _know_ it. Allowing his fangs to descend, he reared back before striking, sinking his fangs into the creature's neck. To his utter surprise, the blood that flooded across his tongue was quite edible; tasty even.

As he drank, he was inundated with scenes of vicious savagery, uncontrolled hunger, rage and violence. It was . . . disturbing that a so-called creature of the night could be so . . . out of control. Where were the enforcers of this dimension? Were there none at all? Who prevented the masses of mortals from discovering them, then? He pulled back the moment the blood flow turned sluggish, contemplating the thing he was holding for several seconds. Shrugging, he twisted, casually ripping the demon's head from its body, watching in fascination as the body, quickly followed by the head still in his hands, disintegrated in a mildly explosive cloud of dust. _So very different,_ he mused, the unique feeding cooling a large portion of his anger as intense curiosity about these . . . 'cousins' grew in its place.

Frowning, he resumed his walk, wondering whether the creature's lack of control had been entirely due to its youth - it couldn't have been more than 40 years old - or to something else entirely. It could, he supposed, be related to the whole demon aspect. _Did_ demons tend to be angry creatures? He didn't know, had no way _to_ know - at least, not before now. He would have to ask Alexander if he knew anything about the subject.

Absorbed in his contemplations, it didn't take him long to reach the young man's apartment, even with sticking to slow mortal means of transportation. The moment he stepped into the building, he knew that Alexander had returned, the young man's scent always particularly strong immediately following his arrival home from work. Quietly letting himself into the apartment, the first thing he noticed was the shower running, the second that his note had been moved. Gratified, though that confused him, that the young man had found his missive, he turned his attention toward the kitchen, wondering if he could manage to actually cook something.

He chuckled and shook his head. He hadn't even cooked back when he'd been mortal himself. Thinking of trying to do so now was sheer lunacy. He froze suddenly, it dawning on him exactly how he was acting, like he was some kind of . . . _mortal_ with mortal worries about _pleasing_ someone else. He frowned, the realization making him more than a little uneasy. He cast a narrowed eyed glare at the still closed door to the bathroom, seriously reconsidering how he was going about this. He was a master vampire, had been one for longer than modern civilization, and here he was meekly allowing _mortals_ to dictate his actions. It was not to be tolerated!

TBC  
Kiristeen ke Alaya  
Feedback: is the ink with which I write! Please review.


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